There's drama and then there's drama


Filmmakers like a lot of drama, and that’s what Java and Tighe got on the stormiest night Fern Forest has seen in a while.
“You’d better let them know about the storm before they come,” I told my husband.
“I’m sure they’ve checked the weather forecast,” he answered.
They had left Brooklyn on Friday, stopping for a night at Lake George. Even if they had cell phone reception, which is always sketchy once one leaves civilization, they may not have thought about the weather. It was Tighe’s birthday weekend, and Java wanted him to have a good time.
The two met in film school in New York City. Tighe didn’t travel far from his home in northern Jersey, but Java came all the way from Paris. When I first met her, I thought we’d gotten it wrong about her being French—she didn’t have an accent at all.
“I want to speak like an American,” she said, “but I use the French accent to flirt.” It might have been a combination of accent and her dark beauty that attracted Tighe, a movie-star-handsome guy who’s also as nice as pie.
We didn’t have much time to get to know them on Saturday because Java wanted to take Tighe out for a nice birthday eve dinner at Mary’s Restaurant, a country elegant place in a farmhouse with roaring fireplaces and gourmet localvore. H and I were watching a movie upstairs when they returned, and we all settled down—for a bit.
Sometime around midnight I awoke to the thunk of an Adirondack chair tumbling across the deck—the wind was that strong. Our house is pinned to rock ledge, but still the structure creaked and snapped. I don’t usually mind the wind whistling, but this wind sounded like an F-15 fighter jet. At first I wondered if the Green Mountain Boys were having midnight maneuvers. Then with a particularly violent blow, I felt the bed quiver.
The weatherman predicted 25 m.p.h. gusts, which is par for the course when one lives on the side of a mountain, but I swear these gusts were twice that. To complicate matters, the thermometer registered a bit below zero.
I got up and looked out the window. A couple years ago after the power went out and stranded treehouse visitors in the dark cold, H lined the front of the treehouse with colored lights so we could look out and tell if there was power and if not, he’d start the generator. On this night the lights were twinkling brightly. No problem there.
During a storm, I always expect to find the treehouse hanging by a nail, but I shouldn’t underestimate my husband’s building skills. H used enormous bolts to secure the house to four sturdy maples, and in the past seven years the little dwelling has withstood hurricanes. But the maple that grows up through the center of the treehouse is free to sway as much as the holes in the floor and ceiling will allow, and sway it did the night Java and Tighe visited.
We always offer guests the option of sleeping in the main house guest room, and on rare occasions someone will take us up on that offer. Once a daughter retreated to the guest room because her mother’s snoring was keeping her awake in the treehouse. Another time a pregnant woman wanted to be closer to the bathroom, but she hung out in the treehouse during the day. Usually, though, guests will tough it out even in the worst weather.
This was the worst weather.
At four a.m. I heard Java and Tighe come softly into the house and tuck themselves into the double bed below us. When I knew they were safe, I was able to doze a little before time to make the coffee.
It was late morning when they finally peeled themselves out of bed. The wind, calm now, had left slanted snowdrifts along the driveway. H had a fire going in the wood stove and the house was cozy.
Java was first up, and over a cup of steaming tea she told us about her film school project, a short movie titled “Take a Deep Breath.” She's submitting it to film festivals but gave us permission to view this adorable vignette about a young couple in love but too shy to make a move. After a surgeon removes their hearts, they are able to fall passionately into each other's arms. 
“I like humor,” Java said. “I want to make funny movies.”  Take a Deep Breath" is shot in France with English subtitles but she admits, “It’s funnier in French than in English.”
When Tighe got up, Java put a pointy birthday hat on him. He didn’t seem to mind—he’s that cool.  

After they had breakfast, H and I convinced Tighe to show us the music video he's in the process of editing. The song is "New Years" by a New York band called Diane Coffee. Tighe wrote, directed and starred in the video with his brother.
The storyline is about two men who attempt to rob a gas station, the old fashioned kind where an attendant pumps gas for patrons. While the robbers threaten the station guys with pistols, a car pulls in. Tighe’s brother goes out and pumps the gas, takes the money and shoves it into his pocket. When another car pulls in, Tighe goes out and pumps the gas. Eventually there’s a line of cars waiting for gas, and instead of holding up the station, the robbers settle for armloads of junk food. In the last scene, their truck runs out of gas and blue police lights flash on the robbers’ faces.
Filmmaking, it seems to me, is a perfect blending of art and technology, and these two emerging artists are talented and savvy, not to mention intrepid. I doubt Java and Tighe will forget Tighe’s 25th birthday for a long time. Java’s birthday is in July, and maybe they’ll give the Treehouse a chance to redeem itself next summer.   

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Sex and the Treehouse

Image
When Hana asked to book Fern Forest Treehouse for herself and three friends, H said there wasn’t room, the treehouse is only ninety square feet, he didn’t know how they’d sleep. “Oh, we’ll bring sleeping bags,” she wrote. “Don’t worry—we’ll fit in.” H is a pushover, especially for such youthful enthusiasm. And he thought it sounded like a good time. When the four gals pulled in from Boston around eleven Friday night, H was waiting up for them, the path to the treehouse lit by solar lamps, the treehouse itself all aglitter with colored lights. From upstairs, I heard excited giggles as he showed them around, more giggles as they climbed into the spa under a sky studded with a million stars. As happens in water at 102 degrees, the giggles calmed to whispers, and eventually all was quiet. The sun rose clear Saturday morning, warming the treehouse so that the girls were up a little after 7:00 a.m. We were still in bed when I heard water running in the downstairs bathroom, and H and
Read more

A Treehouse guest discovers his roots in an old millstone

Image
In spring 1794, a group of men set their shoulders to clearing land in what is now Lincoln, Vermont. The footpath they blazed into the forest eventually became a road named for the Quakers who came to settle with ox carts holding all their belongings. They were young, strong, and healthy. Once they pried rocks from the fields, they found the soil rich enough to support their crops. A year later, nearly one hundred residents, mostly from New York and Connecticut, scattered over 24,000 acres of wilderness, most living in tiny one-room cabins made from logs they hewed by hand from trees they had cut on their property. They cooked meals in stick-and-mud fireplaces, spun wool from their sheep, wove fabrics to make their own clothing, and cobbled shoes for their families. They hunted game in the forests and guarded their livestock from wolves that prowled the land. When the crops failed and game was sparse, they went hungry. Quaker services were held in homes until they built a m
Read more

Octopus Fishing in Portugal

Image
Ann was studying in Spain for a semester, living with a Spanish family. When the university had a break, Portugal called. It’s an old country, remains of the first settlements dating back to the Neolithic period, five thousand years before Christ. The Visigoths invaded in the sixth century. In 1986, the hills were covered in wildflowers, and horses grazed in fields crimsoned with red geraniums. On the southern coast of Portugal, the area of Algarve is dotted with small fishing villages. Santa Luzia, Tavira, Lisboa, Faro, Cape Sagres, Salema. From the gold dust beaches, one can look across the sea to the shores of Morocco. Bathers swim topless—young women, old women, bathing tops cast aside, breasts bared to the sun. Ann felt strange covering herself. She was just nineteen and modest, but she wanted to fit in, to be accepted, even among these strangers on the beach. She’d worn a one-piece tank suit but slipped the straps off her shoulders, rolled down the suit’s upper half, lay
Read more