Simple Pleasures: All By Myself at Edith Wharton's House

Don't you just love those rare, sparkling days when every little detail comes together meticulously to create a "dream day" you couldn't have improved upon, even if you tried? I had that kind of day last Saturday.

We were in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. My husband and kids were off skiing with friends, and as I have no interest in skiing, I headed off on my own to the nearby town of Lenox to visit the home of one of my literary loves, Edith Wharton. And that's where fate intervened in my favor, to an almost ridiculous extent.

Edging up the long, slushy, icy mess of a driveway to The Mount, I noticed there were only a few cars in the parking lot, even though it was a sunny weekend afternoon. A friendly young woman walked over to ask me if I was there for "the reading." I had no idea there was a reading, or that The Mount was officially closed until May. It was only open that day, she told me, for a marathon reading of Ethan Frome, which she invited me to drop in on, or--get this!--I could look around the house by myself. Is that a literary jackpot or is it not? Even if Mrs. Wharton's work isn't your cup of tea, just imagine being granted the opportunity to poke around your favorite author's house (old, large, and lovely) at your leisure, completely on your own. No crowds jostling or nudging you along. No velvet ropes to stay behind. Not even a ticket to buy. Plus, a free shuttle service to deliver you back and forth over the icy, slushy terrain. Heaven!

Like the others who trickled in during the afternoon for the reading, I popped in and out of the living room, for the peaceful enjoyment of having a good story read to me by melodic voices with romantic accents. It made me remember why children love bedtime stories--a soothing voice, transporting them to another time and place. But the photographer in me was champing at the bit to look around--and look around I did!

I turned off my phone so as not to disturb the reading in the main room, and slipped back into an earlier time of simpler pleasures, before you could carry a telephone in your pocket. Back to the days when if you wanted to contact a friend, you penned a letter for the post to deliver, instead of texting or emailing. If you traveled in certain privileged circles, as Edith Wharton did, you invited friends for fancy dinners or long holiday weekends. Her circle of friends included Henry James, another one of my favorite writers, and signs of him were present all around the house. An elegant table was set in the dining room, complete with place cards of the luminaries who frequently dined there.

In the guestroom designated for Henry James, I looked out the window to admire the relatively unchanged woods and landscaped gardens that James would have seen during his stays (although I believe his visits were in summertime, to escape the New York City heat).

My favorite part of my solo tour was Edith Wharton's bedroom, the place where she liked to write her novels (in bed). Some original, handwritten pages from one of the drafts for The House of Mirth were lying on the coverlet. It's my second favorite of her novels, after The Custom of the Country. I felt the equivalent of starstruck, seeing the pages spread out before me.

I'm so grateful that I was able to study these pages up close, without even a glass between us. (No, I didn't touch them--natural oils on fingers!) It was like being able to read her mind as she wrote the novel. (And, ignoring all the cross-outs, isn't her penmanship pretty?)

I remember once seeing a T-shirt in an airport shop that read "Happiness is Expensive." Last Saturday afternoon was proof that happiness is not only inexpensive, but sometimes completely free-of-charge. Happiness that day for me was...

...turning off my phone and listening to my own thoughts.

...the peacefulness of a snow-filled woods on a sunlit afternoon.

...exploring thoughtfully decorated rooms from a bygone era.

...taking photo after photo, on my own schedule, not inconveniencing anybody by snapping pictures for hours.

...and, most especially, carefully studying the life of one of my favorite women in history, in a way I never imagined was possible.