The exterior of Reynolda’s greenhouse
Last year’s Tanglewood Toast reintroduced me to Winston-Salem, North Carolina, previously only visited during my college years when alcohol suddenly became unavailable for one reason or another. I had heard about, and passed by, Reynolda House there but had never been, so when I learned that it held a collection of American art I had to go check it out. It only took me a year to do it.
Reynolda might be considered the Piedmont’s Downton Abbey. Much smaller in scale and less forbidding than Biltmore, the “bungalow,” as it’s called, was built in 1917 by the wife of J. Smith Reynolds, the tobacco magnate. The pictures I took with my ailing cell phone don’t in any way reflect the brilliant fall colors that lit up the grounds of this lovely home.
I paid my entrance fee, received a rather stern lecture about not touching or photographing anything, was told to turn off my cell phone and then asked to put my handbag in a locker for the duration. After that, I was free to wander the entire house from the cellar to the attic (although I was disappointed not to see the “big kitchen” once I’d gotten a glimpse of the massive butler’s pantry). Every room was furnished either with the original furniture or close replicas, which made it easy to imagine wandering the premises as an invited guest. There were so many broad porches and tall windows with expansive views of the lovely gardens and grounds, and yet such a large house had a very intimate aura.
I really wish that I had been able to photograph some of the interior details. The hand crafted tiles on the porches were made in Pennsylvania, and the color and glazing begged to be touched. (But I only touched them with my feet, museum lady.) The literature on Reynolda states that the art selected for the house was supposed to be the “masterpieces” of their artist creators. Perhaps the writers meant “master works,” or I’m just showing my ignorance, because I have to admit that one of the main draws for me was to see masterpieces by Childe Hassam, one of my favorite American artists of the late 19th century. Although absolutely lovely and imposing, I was let down to see that his work was limited to a single large still life of a blossom in a vase. Was that his masterpiece? Or a mature work? But I admit it was amazing to be able to come within touching distance of that particular painting, and many other works by American painters and sculptors ranging from the 18th century to the present.
Stumbling into a group of well-heeled women who were on a guided tour, (I discovered again that there really is an arcane North Carolina accent that I had thought was fading, but was reminded is alive and well in the poshy crowd. Imagine for a minute the statement, “I just LOVE that,” and then imagine that the word “love” has three soft syllables and as many descending notes. If doves spoke English, they would sound like this.) I learned that every bedroom in the house had its own gleaming porcelain bathroom to prevent the spread of disease. Likewise, every bathroom had its own doctors’ scale and not, as I would have thought, to make sure everyone would still be able to fit into the tiny little gowns and tuxes on display in the attic. Rather, they were to make sure no one had fallen prey to the ravages of tuberculosis, evidently the ebola of the gilded age.
Having retrieved my handbag (“You were here a long time,” declared the museum lady–a little suspiciously I thought–as I returned my locker key. I wanted to say, “I locked up my purse and had to juggle this locker key the whole time, so I swear I didn’t touch a thing except my brochure!), I began to wander the gardens and snap away.
This beautiful fountain and little courtyard are directly across from the entrance to one of the broad porches. Back in the day, visitors arrived on a circular drive in front of the porch.
The formal gardens are full of lovely vistas like this one. The flowers were just a little past their peak, but the weather was really perfect for a garden stroll.
The asters were buzzing with bees.
The vegetable gardens were my favorite part of the grounds. There were profusions of kales, Brussells sprouts, cauliflowers–mixed with giant elephant ears and other unusual annuals. I had lots of questions for the gardeners, who must have been nearby based on the clusters of cuttings and implements I saw lying around, but they never appeared. It was threatening rain, so I returned to Ellie Belle and ate my lunch. (What had that slender little museum lady been implying when she looked me up and down and whispered, “You can walk over and eat at Reynolda Village, but just order an appetizer and some soup. The portions are HUGE.”)
I pointed my vehicle southward and returned from whence I came, musing as I went that barring a medical catastrophe I’ll never again weigh anywhere even in the suburbs of 120 pounds, I will never be in the market for any of the insanely fussy clothing that was on display in a Reynolda Village shop called “Gazebo sale room” (today’s special: an extra 20% off, so that spaghetti-strapped floral evening gown with flounces sale priced at $480 was an even better deal), and I will only rarely get to hear the musical accents of expensively brought up southern ladies.
I enjoyed every minute of my solo journey to Reynolda House and Gardens.
Now I leave you with this late-fall offering from my own garden. Happy fall trails, y’all. Stay tuned for Babe’s next trip to Boone, North Carolina.
rambillon 