Snob Hill In French Is Still Snob Hill

The Yard Awaits

It's Springtime for Snob Hill -- Spring is a bit late this year, at least by the calendar. It's hard to believe that just two weeks ago our area had approximately 14 inches of snow. The local weather dolts have been calling it a 100-year snow storm. That may be, but we wonder what happens when it snows 15 inches same time next year. Will they call it a 1-year snow?​

As we stroll around our God's half acre on what we vaingloriously call the Flora Tour, we were drawn to a corner of the yard that has undergone significant changes in the 17 years we have lived here. When we moved in, this corner was home to a dilapidated, rusting shed that resembled something out of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Right next to it ​was what the real estate agent called a Water Feature Koi Pond. All in one phrase. We came to know it as a mosquito incubator and drowning pool for baby bunnies who didn't know any better.

So, we Sawzalled the shed and filled in the pond hole. We repurposed the flat stones that lined the pond. We also installed a stone bench, but that's another story. For a number of years, we concentrated on other parts of the yard. We are not too proud to admit we invested in the so-called curb appeal of this place, and to hell with that forlorn corner that no one besides us could see.

Last year, we discovered the potential of this corner. We are a frugal couple, so we waited until the last of the planting season and snapped up some discounted plants in need of some TLC. One was a pussy willow from Costco. The tag said, "French Pussy Willow." We are not too proud to admit that in addition to the low price, we were also drawn to the term French. This is Snob Hill, after all.

We nurtured it without knowing what to expect. There is always a bit of the Forrest Gump Factor when purchasing plants; one never knows what one is going to get. What we got was a thriving bush with riotous catkins. The French, apparently, know their pussy willows, Like some of our other favorite plants, we have a nickname. We dub this Pussy Galore in homage to the 50 years of James Bond movies.

French Pussy Willow, Salix Discolor

Tonight, we are grilling skinless/boneless chicken breasts and filleted chicken thighs. Due to time constraints, we are using one of our favorite bottled marinades by Stubb's. Then we doctor it up with some olive oil, orange and lemon juices, and a dash of Kickin' Chicken season from Weber. Still in our French mode, we are preparing Dauphinois Potatoes, ala Julia Childs. It is dishes like these that we most appreciate our, ahem, French mandoline for those paper-thin of slices of Yukon Gold pomme de terre.

The Difference Between Snow and Leaves

We are digging out from yesterday's 14-inch spring snow storm. The weather people were right for a change; it arrived on time and in the predicted amounts. After a few years of paltry snowfall, this one is spectacular, even if a little late. We were inspired at first to offer our paean to snow. But from our perch in the kitchen, watching shovels, snow blowers, and helpful grandchildren materialize, something else seemed worth mentioning.​

Most of us on Snob Hill emerged about the same time this morning, intent on clearing paths for our selves and the mailman. The municipality will not plow our street because we live on a what the others call a private drive. We do not, as a neighborhood, think of ourselves as private drive people. That's a slippery slope. Next we may become a gated community. So we pay a man and his truck and his plow to clear the street.

What struck us this morning is how we all helped one another. Mr. W from two houses down, brought out a snowblower that looked like he needed a license to operate it. He cleared his next door neighbor's circle drive, and the driveway of the two younger families across the street. One of us helped an elderly woman from across the street, and she reciprocated with some kitty litter to help us extricate the Jeep from a snow bank.​ We all made sure to place snow piles in convenient places.

Snow, in other words, is a unifying event. The writer Jean Stafford got snow right when she instructed the this to be engraved in her headstone, “The snow was a benison, it forgave them all.”

Not so with leaves.

Snob Hill is filled with mature trees whose leaves fall throughout the hill at the whim of each prevailing wind. The leaves are like one of nature's united nations, all mixed together. Yet, it is hard not to be resentful raking large sycamore leaves when one does not "own" a sycamore. We should only be responsible for the leaves that are indigenous to our own property. The operators of leaf blowers have been known to "return" leaves to their rightful owners when the rightful owners aren't home. Others have the philosophy that if they ignore the piles of leaves long enough, eventually they will blow next door or across the street.

Snob Hill leaves, in other words, are not unifying.​ They bring out our lesser angels.

Our Life on Snob Hill, The Beginning

Many towns and cities have Snob Hills. When we moved to our own private Snob Hill 17 1/2 years ago, we were the youngest family on this twelve-household incorporated subdivision. We had one five-year-old son and one on the way in a few months. We were living in a newly built suburban ranch-style house that my father in law called a glorified double-wide. We had been looking to move into an older, more traditional home for a few years. We wanted a house to go along with our antiques. We found several homes, but they either needed too much remodeling to live in during renovation or they had already remodeled and were beyond our means. We were mildly complaining about our situation one Sunday after Mass when an elderly parishioner urged us keep driving around town and sooner or later something would turn up.  We took her advice and drove home on a street unfamiliar to us.

And there it was: an Open House Today sign planted haphazardly on a brushy hill. The house was obscured by a tall wooden fence. A peek through the gate and we resolved to return at the advertised time. Call it kismet or call it serendipity, but the only thing keeping the divorcing owners (both anesthesiologists) legally together was this house. Due to this  "divorce situation," as the agent put it, the owners had just reduced the asking price by 30 grand -- just barely within our range.

​We came. We stayed all day. We made an offer. We made a door-to-door move about a month later. Our life on Snob Hill had begun.