It was said with such forthrightness that I had to smile.

After a long and tiring day of researching federal appropriation law, meetings | briefings, and design criteria , I decided to take Metro- the Navy Yard / Ballpark entrance on the Green Line- to Union Station.  My Amtrak Acela train awaited and I was eager to relax a bit in the "Quiet" Car.  It is not really quiet because the level of enforcement and adherence to low- or non-audio compliance depends on how feisty the conductor is feeling that day.

The young man, with his slight but muscularly lean build, lightly waved hair, and swarthy skin, just smiled at me and said-

"It's crazy messy, but it suits you.  I LIKE IT."

After smiling quizzically at the young man, I thanked him and made my way further down to the train platform.  We had just finished a brief conversation about the ballots and the unfairness of the lack of certain candidates not being allowed on the general election ballot.  What a boon to have a pleasant yet fleeting conversation about politics during an election year.  (And no, we did not discuss our preferences for candidates, thank goodness).

Those words, got me to thinking.  Of course, those that know me- well and otherwise- know that I just must relate everything back to architecture.  Yes, that word that conjures up all-encompassing disciplines that relate back to design & building.  At least it does for me.

Now, you might ask how it does that?  I am going to reveal a teeny bit of the sausage-making that comes with being an architect.  In other words, the process is the pork.

Layers and layers of bum wad (aka trace paper,  diaphanous and of varying translucencies, laying atop my desk.  Wood shavings, eraser crumbs, and lead dust littered the surfaces of my assigned studio space.  Along with printouts on white bond paper, residing underneath more drawing media, colored pencils of varying hues and lead sizes, there are also a plethora of oil-based markers that give evidence to the testament of 'the process.

It is necessary, however, to have this chaos of clutter in order to flesh out a design idea- especially an architectural one.  Even though, if my computer monitor had magically come alive, it would have fought for (rightful?) equal space in my space.  Or, it could be that I am completely old school and must have the analog drawing elements while designing, in all phases of a project.

This was my desk in undergrad and graduate architecture school.  It was crazy messy, but it suited me.  The fire marshal, not so much...

It is my desk now.  The one in my home office, located on the third floor of my house.  It is crazy messy, but it suits me.  Well, kind of.  So take that, you silly Fire Marshal.

Are all architects messy?  While I cannot definitively answer that question, I will say that for me- typically a germaphobe and neat freak- I need the clutter.  To find a sketch, or a quick painting that I produced weeks ago, may come in handy for an architectural solution after a series of design blocks.  Solving the proverbial problem tends to mean that I must exercise thought after thought, graphically represented on paper media.  I could suggest that the sheets and sheets are an indication of my prolific design nature.  Alas, this is less than truthful.

Ideas are what I imagine a mother with a brood of younguns feels when looking at her babies.  She just can't love one over another, right?  My 'babies' surround me and inspire me to make more 'babies'!  (now, now... gutter minds.  thinking strictly PG here.) Architecturally speaking, you gutter minds. And just like real babies- they are messy.  Crazy messy.  But ideas have a glorious benefit in that they don't talk back.  Well, not verbally.  These design babies speak in a different voice- like a photographer's voice.  Some are soft, some are playful.  There are those that are dark and brooding, and those that are promising and uplifting.

My messiness usually steers me reliably toward a the refinement of a parti, then to the beginning of a feasible solution.  A solution that I can then feel confident in nurturing toward an outcome.  I am happy.  Client is happy.  And the babies can channel their inner Peter Pan and stay right where they are.  At least until it is time to clean my desk.  Whoo hoo!

Just in case you have not realized, I have yet to explain of what the aforementioned young man was referring.  My beautiful crinkled Frank & Eileen Barry Shirts?  No.  My smeared-after-a-long-day-Robert Smith-looking-red-lipstick?  Hardly.  The eye makeup that was undoubtedly smudged making me look like I was trying out for a bit part in the remake of The Crow?  Nah.  He was talking about my hair, which is typically a woman's crowning glory.  Me?  I usually have pencils, chopsticks, or other non-typical straight-edges holding back my unruly (and silver-streaked when I do not make the time to choose to color it) mane of hair.

So, I have the sincere young man to thank for the backward compliment that led me to writing this post.  (And yes, as I compose this, my hair is a complete mess, but it suits me and I am pretty sure that I think that I like it).

Gradient azure skies with Simpson-esque clouds.  The weathered rustic wood and expansive panes of glass are sprinkled among the mountain laden valley.  Gorgeously muscled and powerful animals, with their impeccably (and impressively!) dressed riders atop them, making their way around the grounds.  The familiar crunch of gravel beneath our feet as we trek to the grassy hill littered with white tents.

This was the Silo Ridge Masters, held at the captivating Keane Stud farm in Amenia, NY.  Horses and riders are vying for a purse of $125,000.

I had no idea that I would be in the rarefied air of the equestrian social circle of Hudson Valley elites.  My invitation to this inaugural event was from a beautiful (both inside and out) friend, whom I had not seen in 8 years.  She would be meeting me, with her two 'littles' in tow.  She is quite a talented designer and works for the company hosting the event.   You might say that I had an ‘in’ to the event.  

The aforementioned beautiful friend.

Surrounded by the beauty of the bucolic landscape, and entranced by the performances, someone might- perhaps- believe that I was on my way to quite the satisfying experience.  But this would not be a 'Sheena Felece' post if I was not talking about... you know... my true love.

Architecture.

Yes, in all its, or any, form.  I love it.  Truly.  Madly.  And deeply.  

You might think that I was waxing poetic over some highly designed, formally complex structures.  This is not the case at all.  Well... not totally.

The stark lines of the angled roof of the weathered shingle shake roof.  The muted tones of the doors and windows.  The wide expanse of the windows that showcased the Valley in all of its verdant and resplendent glory.  These features were common among the stables, event spaces, and the other buildings that comprise the Silo Ridge Field Club that sits adjacent to the farm.

Even with the immense visual seduction that captured me, I was enraptured by the small tents providing the demarcation line of the event.  Some were made of wood, clearly paying homage to the architecture of the permanent architecture structures to which they faced.

Then, there were the others.  The ones constructed of fabric.  White fabric.  Fabric that was stretched and pulled vertically so that the underlying structural components were visible beneath.  Fabric that beautifully contrasted the horizontal plane(s) of the floors of tents.  (I’ll admit, that some of the fabric might have been plastic, but just go along with it, please.)

The tents. See them there? Just behind this sweet little girl.

While the environs were fascinating, what got the design cogs in my brain working were the flags atop a very select number of the tents.  If there were ever such a thing as architectural panache, this was it.  Flags blowing with the cool October wind.  Maybe it was the clear simplicity or the seeming perfection of the little feature made my heart full.  Whatever it was, I was reminded of the adage that 'less is more' or in this case, 'less is better'.

After enjoying the equine|rider performances, we walked around the grounds a bit to let the kiddos tire themselves out. I didn't mind because I could sate my admiration for the place just a little longer. It seemed futile for me to question what it was about the little pennants sitting atop some of these ephemeral habitats that resonated with me so,  blowing in the wind as carefree as anything, and more appealing could ever conjure up mentally.  

Even my lob-stah roll had fun. Before it went into my tummy, that is.

As the day began to wane, and the crowd was making its way back to the parking lots, we said goodbye, with hugs, kisses and fervent promises to reconnect.  Driving away from the complex, and with a final stop at a scenic overlook just a few minutes away,  I couldn't resist the urge to finish the day with Ms. Simone...

(the remix version, of course)

Tusen takk for ingenting.

It’s chilly here. The Easterly Manhattan wind is wreaking havoc on my already dry, scaly skin. And there I was, walking the streets of NYC with my Nordic buddy, who I have jokingly called “Two Farms” for many years.

Having grown up in Ohio, I should be used to cold weather. I should maybe even enjoy it. And I do- usually. I survived the Great Dayton Blizzard as a kid. I was made of tough stuff, right? And wanting to represent my roots as a hearty, intrepid Midwesterner, I braved the wind and cold as we made our way between lots of scaffolding, the blustery nips, impatient vehicles (at least the drivers were warm), and fellow pedestrians. With lips stinging, and eyes watering, I thought, “C’mon…just a few blocks more… we’ll be at the restaurant and all will be well. Besides, you want to be able to keep up with Two Farms, right? He’s a decedent of Vikings!”

You see, Two Farms grew up in Norway, so he should also have been used to the cold. No bit of wind or low temperatures would stop him from getting to our destination.

In the blessed shelter of one of the many tall buildings of the Big Apple, and while we were waiting for the light to turn green at a crosswalk, I ventured a look to see if I could visually glean just a bit of wisdom from a native Scandinavian, whose home country is known for its sometimes absolute and brutal cold seasons. It was my hope that I could quickly learn some stalwart tactics of how to defeat the cold. There just had to be techniques that this ignoramus - that’d be me- (of chilly weather) could use.

I found out- and quickly- that my Viking ‘venn’ was having NONE of this cold weather. Not. One. Iota.

"I (expletive) hate this (expletive) (expletive) cold weather!"

Did my ears deceive me, perhaps? There was nothing- I mean, nothing- forthcoming. Except for frowns and bad words. (Two Farms may have ESL, but his command of bad words is impressive.)

Okay, I had to get to the bottom of this. Something isn't adding up here...

Me- But you are a Viking, aren't you? This should be child's play for you.

Two Farms- What?! No- ay! (Expletive!- because a gust of wind hits him in the face.) Sheena Felece, I live in a city, not the forest. I want to be (expletive) warm.

Me- But what about your ancestors? They did it, right? C'mon, don't tell me that you've abandoned your heritage. Their blood still runs through your veins.

Two Farms- They lived (expletive) years ago. I learned that history (expletive) in grammar school. I like the sun. I want to be warm. What the (expletive) is this weather?

A long pause.

Me- Wow... Well, you do your ancestors proud.

My apparent sarcasm is not lost on him, as he hazards a turn in my direction to frown crossly at me.

Me- Just sayin’. And I offer a wink.

We continued our walk, and upon reaching our destination, the frowns and bad words, to some extent, abate. Because Two Farms is now warm. And he has a beer. I would remain woefully ignorant of the mastery of survival in the cold. And me, being me, just had to pay him back.

Me- So, you are an oxymoron, then.

Two Farms- Huh? Are you calling me a name? Something (expletive) insulting? Shame...

Me- Oh no, I'd never... but instead of Two Farms, I'm going to call you Urban Viking. You deserve it.

Two Farms- A giggle. The beer must be taking affect. That's an oxy... oxy...

Me- moron, Moron. Like Free Gift, or... lemme think... Useful Idiot. Got it?

The light of understanding hits, and I am given another giggle.

Two Farms- That is a good one, Fish.

(It's a nickname he's used for me for years. I am a Pisces.)

We toast- my glass of bubbly to his beer. Skål!

(Cold-1, Sheena Felece/Fish- 0)

So, it has been a while. And I'd like to think that my absence from the digital space was only for a short while, until I realized that 'short' meant more than a year.

It would be easy to say that I was doing something fun (like travelling to new places). Or trying new things (which is somewhat true). Maybe I can say that I was designing and building new projects (again-somewhat true). Alas, there is only ONE thing that would take precedence over maintaining my website.

Hands.

Large, expressive, and wrinkled. The hands that fed me a bottle when I was a baby. The hands that endlessly brushed my knurled and knotted hair, and that of my sisters. Hands that stirred and stirred the orange juice I remember him making each week (yes, from a can…it was the 80s, mind you).

Fingers on the hands that thumped my brother and cousin upside the head during church services because they were acting up. The hands that spanked our bad bottoms when we misbehaved, and then comforted us as he explained why he had to discipline us. Strong hands that always held us lovingly whenever we were scared.

The hands that made us school lunches. The hands that always cranked the ice cream machine in what seemed like forever as we were impatient for that unmistakable flavor of truly homemade vanilla ice cream. Hands that made heavenly scrambled eggs, decadent coconut cake at Christmas, and irresistible crunchy-on-the-outside, soft-and crumby-on-the-inside hot water cornbread (if you don't know, you should).

Hands that could Gerry-rig, ahem, 'fix' anything (and I do mean anything) with duct tape. And those hands ultimately helped me to pursue goal of becoming an architect.

The hands that held mine, and squeezed my fingers to let me know that he loved me, even if he could not say it because he could not speak during those last few days in the hospital.

My dad's hands.

I miss holding his hands during prayer before a meal and before my travels back to Delaware during those trips home to Ohio that I made over the years. I miss the increasingly scribbly writing- from the big, sometimes puffy fingers on those wonderful hands- on the cards and letters he sent to me, without fail.

There will be no more new memories of Dad using his big puffy fingers to gently make the most delicate and creative jewelry. Nor will there be new instances of him using anything short of a crayon to fill out his favorite crossword puzzles and word searches.

Gone are the days of him using those hands to play board games with us. (We'd accuse him of cheating- which he totally did. And he'd either defiantly refute, or impishly smile at us with a non-response...). Dominoes, UpWords, Yahtzee, Caps, Banana-grams, Spades...

---

My dad's hands were examples of the epitome of hard work, away from which he never shied. He taught us, his children, what it meant to cherish the importance and goodness of being tactile.

The last thing about his hands that is indelibly seared in my brain (and on my heart) is the very final time that I saw them. They were wrapped around his beloved Bible.

And I can think of no better portrait of hands than that.

Norman Lee Spearman 1923-2024