The New York Times' Home section got all breathy this week over Donald Hall's New Hampshire farmhouse. Let's start with the overwrought description of its oft-chronicled storage area:
"The overworn floorboards creaked loudly and the space smelled like dust and mouse droppings, yet as the flashlight illuminated piles of broken furniture and old clocks and mysterious implements, it was easy to understand why Mr. Hall is so drawn to this space."
What exactly is an "overworn floorboard"? Must it creak loudly? And did our intrepid reporter actually smell mouse droppings?
"If poetry finds truths by giving equal weight to large and small moments in life, then this house is filled with visual poetry. Everywhere you look are juxtapositions of the likely and unlikely, grand paintings and personal minutiae."
That has got to be the oddest definition of poetry I've ever read. And as for how it describes home decor -- that's what we all do. We've got some nice stuff and some photos of our cousins on the fridge. But with Donald Hall it becomes ... POETIC. But wait, wait for the final line:
"But as he must have known somehow as a boy, when he and Eagle Pond Farm first began their near lifelong embrace, he will always return."
Wow. Woah. Wow.
