The Porter House was built in 1867 for the merchant Dighton B. Ellsworth (1822–1896), an English immigrant who had come to Decorah from New York in 1855. After his death, the Ellsworth family sold the house to Francis and Emma Young whose daughter Grace married Adelbert Field Porter (known as "Bert" who had been raised in the house across the street) in 1904. The Young residence became the home of Bert and Grace (and her parents, until their deaths.)
Bert and Grace Porter had an interest in travel and Bert developed a natural history collection from his trips through North America, South America, and Asia. His collection, which includes blue morpho butterflies from South America, also includes this spectacular rock wall surrounding the property as well as the family's personal effects, including papers, books, furniture, and china. The house became a museum in 1969 and is listed in the National Register of Historic Places. Bert and Grace had no children.
While working up some scans from some old negatives I came across an image of a young woman.
A portrait of a cousin of mine, the picture was taken at a family gathering at my Grandparent’s farm in 1969. She was the daughter of my mother’s oldest brother but I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember her name. My connection with that branch of my relations was never very strong, even though they lived in the same city I did when I was growing up. I knew the names of her older siblings—my sister was close to the eldest daughter—but, for some reason, this person never really made much of a impression on me. Part of that was my own cluelessness. I was only 18 when I took this picture and she was three years older, a bigger gulf between our ages then than it seems to be now. She was nice and must have felt comfortable enough to let a gangly teen take her picture. Her parents liked to take an occasional drink (or three, or more) and I sensed that there was a rift between her father and my mother that may have been based in childhood.
I did a Google search for her parents and sister, plus the city they lived in, and “obit.” Her obituary came right up. She had lived a good life: a professional woman and a beloved step-mother and grandmother. She died at 73 during the height of the Covid pandemic.
Rest in peace Joanie, I’m sorry I missed knowing you…
Hi you, two booths down
Would you like to join me?
You see
It's been years
since I've had a man
You know.
To slap me around.
I would love to
But I have weak wrists
Can't make a fist, he sighed
I can only kiss you
violently to show you
You know.
Who is boss.
Conversations at a breakfast table, my impending doom.
As I handed over breakfast to my father yesterday morning, he looked at me and said, "You're getting married at 29." I stared at him and then began railing. It was a rant of denial, my friends, and although I'm not too sure I remember, I might have sounded something like this -
"Twenty-nine? So soon? Are you sure? Who told you?
That's like, three years away. So soon? I haven't had enough relationships yet.
So soon? Who told you, Baba, who told you?
I should really speed up my moves now. If my marriage is three years away, I need to have as many affairs as possible before that. So many men, so little time!"
So then my pater brings out this yellowed scroll that is my first horoscope, made at the time I was born, and showed me that the stars indeed had predicted a late marriage for me. The chances of me tying the knot (or noose, if you please) are very high when I am twenty nine. Only now, the late marriage does not look so *late* anymore.
Oh, and to think that of all the guys I know already, not ONE is marriage material ...yeah, that knowledge helps a lot. So it should basically be someone who is going to materialize out of nowhere in the next three years, fit the *husband* bill as I see it, and make me fall in love with him (because arranged marriage remains a no-no), like me back in equal measure, AND be ready for commitment and marriage.
Hah! Like Charles Dickens said, "Great Expectations!"
Anyways, I will be off tomorrow for the land of Robbie T (Rabindranath Tagore for the uninitiated) - Shantiniketan, where I shall listen to the songs of the bauls - the traveling bards, and watch the dark tribal girls sway to the rhythm of mohua, the local liquor made from fermented dates.
It's as much Hedonism that I can work up at short notice. If I am indeed to be married within the next three years, I'm making sure I live the high life before I fall to my grave.
Tjarnarskóli is one of the most distinctive buildings in Reykjavík.
While first-time visitors to the city are often impressed by this distinctive red-roofed yellow-sided landmark, they are usually mystified as to its function as there is no English signage indicating is provenance.
Built in 1906, Lækjargata 14b is a wooden building east of Iðnó by the Pond in Reykjavík. I’ve often wondered about what goes on inside its corrugated walls. Notable for its Gothic-style tower, this “little school with a big heart” is a private junior high school located in was once The Agricultural House. The Icelandic Agricultural Society built
the building in 1906, and its offices were at the south end of the house
for decades. Although the building is more than a century old, the school it contains was founded in 1985. The school’s emphasis is on human development and individualized learning, functioning as a private, tuition-based alternative to public school education. It attracts “… students seeking specific learning approaches.” The number of students is about 50.
The purpose of the tower remains unknown to me, Iceland’s Bell, perhaps?.
