In Pursuit of the Common Good

I came down a pebbled path with perfectly sown trees, and felt like they were pointing the way forward for me.  Glancing to the right, I saw an old tennis court, the type old handsome chaps, the likes of Redford or Newman would play a mischievous game on a warm Saturday afternoon.  I immediately felt at ease hearing the bird chirping as the turret in front of me came into focus.  I was tasked with walking the property and expressing some type of palpable vibe of the old estate. I felt oddly at home, despite in not being my own. Like this beauty, I grew up in a home built in 1927 and I quickly re-acquainted myself to the features of the time. The home felt fortified, the type a family longs for to feel secure in this world. It was built like a marriage of blocks and bricks; the bricks being the dash of color that the stark block white exterior needed to balance out the home.  The crank-style wrought iron windows brought me right back to my own childhood and created the perfectly imagined scenario of my seven year old self “letting down her hair”.  The flat plot and mature plantings made for an idyllic stroll through the property’s many nooks. 

I was quickly awoken by the reality of weight of my camera in hand.  I felt ruefully uneducated in the importance of the couple who have called this dwelling home for many years. I was given the cliff notes version.  I knew from the exterior of the home, my vantage point would have me craving a more in depth look beyond the front door.  The man who had lived here was none other than A.E. Hotchner, a prolific novelist, biographer and screenwriter who called Earnest Hemingway, “Papa” and Paul Newman his best friend. In short time, I understood that the man who had just passed away was a legend. In that mindset, the property took on a different essence.  Upon each step I took, a story teller of grand interpretation, had stepped before me.  I walked by an open garage door and posters were unceremoniously hung on the walls, the way one would put up a marathon poster after finishing the distance to remind oneself, “Hey, I did this thing once”; every time the groceries were carried in from the garage.  The names on these posters, were just a fractal of the many people of theatrical community he brought together in the pursuit of the common good. His good deeds, were humbly tacked up to these walls.

I glanced over and saw a poster of the company he and Paul Newman started together and the idea of the man started to take better focus. The two had ventured together in the building of Newman’s food empire of good karma, better known as Newman’s Own. My friend told me a story of the two of them mixing one of their first recipes in a wash tub with a canoe oar. The familiar face on everything from popcorn to salad dressing would become a staple in so many of our pantries to this day, raising money for deserving charities. As I looked at the poster of this man with the knowing smile, It made me want to know him better. To do this, I would spend the rest of the day listening to interviews he had orated on his 100th year of his life’s many adventures. 

Walking the property, I looked up at the towering trees. My imagination wandered as I envisioned with each foot of growth, over that timeframe, he would write a prolific book such as: “Hemingway in Love”, “Everyone Comes To Elaines”, King Of The Hill” or a living history of the one and only Sophia Loren. I was enraptured by the fact that someone could live so fully and tell about it to the profound age of 102.
I shot some images of the Koi pond wondering if he named his fish. The network of sheds with simple green doors housed a potting shed, an enclosure for peacocks, along with other relics of life’s day to day fancies. Another shed, clearly one with no one living in it, had the house number and a tiny door knocker, showing the owners sense of humor at life.   
When I arrived earlier, some curious deer made it a point to stop and welcome me.  This vision of serenity was a haven for living and breathing things to stop and simply exhale. As I did just this I was greeted by Virginia, Hotch’s recently widowed wife. Her posture was tall and she spoke with a refined resonance that seemed to perfectly complete her timeless and disarming beauty. Her Georgian accent, while it may have become more muted over the years from harsh New England winters, gave away her telling pedigree.  She was the grace in their marriage, and I learned intuitively, the very key to what kept him fully raptured in life. As her acting career grew, they crossed paths and they would eventually share a marriage and this storied home together.  Their story had all the makings of a Hollywood romance finely crafted even into his very last days with hand written love letters for his beautiful Virginia . As she may have been wearing her casual house robe today, in my mind she may as well had been wearing an Oscar’s gown while posed gracefully under the willow tree.
As the ground crunched under my feet the small details made me want to see more. Rather, I exhaled and listened , slowing my pace to embrace the details and focus on life’s good fortune. Each detail of a home, whether pristine or weathered, represents something far greater than just mortar or vegetation. It's sacred. It tells it’s dwellers story, something that is crafted and grown over time. Hotch one said, “Of course we all have our limits, but how can you possibly find your boundaries unless you explore as far and as wide as you possibly can?” Clearly, the boundaries of this home called them back from their adventures together, through the storied path of trees.