I think that you’ll agree.

…

I never expected to fall in love with a woman, let alone with a woman who’d been buried more than a century before I set foot in her home state of Alabama. But “Howard” wasn’t like most women, as I quickly discovered.

Expecting little more than a tour of one of the many lovely homes in Huntsville’s Twickenham Historic District, I lingered in the foyer contemplating the unusual paintings hung along the staircase. Something about them seemed oddly out of place in the 1819 Federal-style home. Yet they called to me to take a closer look, tempting me to trod just a few steps up, and just a few more, toward the bedrooms to see what other curiosities might await me there.

That’s when her words, spoken from the drawing room, gripped me. So lively and quick, I suppose they would have given rise to any poetry-lover’s pulse. And I’ve always had a weakness for poetry.

The drawing room at the Weeden House Museum and Garden in Huntsville.

Another stacked stanza revealed in its rhyme that it was indeed a poem, and just one of dozens Maria “Howard” Weeden wrote in the last decade of her life. I stepped into the crowded room and there on the desk were four bound volumes—each more than a hundred years old—filled with her rich cadences and the vivid voices of souls who once sat with her in this same room.

In this case, it was a broken-hearted banjo player lamenting the loss of his lover—and muse—to another, as recited to us by an animated Huntsville historian:

An’ often I thought that its quiverin’ strings

     Must be of myse’f a part—

Else how could dey tingle an’ thrill as dey did

     If her shadow but fell on my heart!

                        –Howard Weeden, from “Silent Strings”

The woman Huntsvillians called Howard wasn’t always known as a poet, however, though she was recognized as a talented artist since girlhood. Fortunately, her mother–though widowed just months before Howard’s birth–was able to arrange private art lessons for her daughter with the prominent Huntsville portrait painter William Frye.

Two of the four volumes of poetry and paintings published by Huntsville’s Howard Weeden.

But when Union troops rolled into Huntsville in 1862, the lovely home on the corner of Gates and Green Streets caught the eye of an officer, and her family was quickly “displaced.” They moved in with their servants first, then traveled all together to Tuskegee to live with her sister’s family as the Civil War raged on.

Painstakingly painted with brushes of no more than three or four hairs, many of Howard’s water color portraits can almost be mistaken for photographs.

Four long years later, Howard, her mother, and her unmarried sister Kate returned to the abandoned home with little money  and few resources. The family’s future was bleak, but only until Howard’s artistic skills and entrepreneurial spirit took flight.

She painted portraits for local families, decorated place cards for their parties, and created exquisite hand-painted greeting cards to mark birthdays, anniversaries, and other occasions for neighbors and townspeople.

Howard also began selling paintings of Huntsville scenes and teaching art lessons. Eventually, under the pseudonym “Flake White,” she began writing regularly for The Christian Observer. Her essays, poems, and fables appeared in the newspaper for twenty years, and Howard had become a profitable artist and writer.

At the age of 47, she traveled to Chicago to see the World’s Columbian Exposition—a trip that may have proven inspiring to many, but how it inspired Howard was most unexpected. When examining the artwork on display at the fair, she was horrified.

Numerous paintings depicted the “freed people” of the south, but Howard could see immediately there was something wrong with them all. The African-American subjects were depicted in an almost  minstrel fashion. Facial features were exaggerated—and repeated identically across different people. And, perhaps oddest of all: everyone had exactly the same color of skin.

Howard became bent on showing the world a more realistic—and more respectful—picture of the people she had lived among all her life. She began inviting all of the people of color she knew to come sit for her in the well-lit drawing room. There, using brushes with no more than three or four horse hairs, she turned paper and watercolor paint into portraits so vivid they could almost be mistaken for photographs.

Howard combined her portraits with poems based on conversations with her subjects.

In 1895, a friend took seven of Howard’s best portraits with her to Germany on a hunch. Her instincts were proven right when all seven were displayed in a highly respected gallery in Berlin. Soon after, they were also shown in Paris, and orders for her extraordinary portraits began pouring in.

Suddenly, Howard had admirers on two continents.

But as she sat with her subjects for hours at a time in the front room of 300 Gates Avenue, Howard did more than capture their visual likenesses. She also listened. Whatever stories they brought in with them through her front door—triumphs or frustrations, love or loss, tips for the garden or recipes for the kitchen—Howard began capturing in poetry when each sitting was complete using the local dialect of the time.

A portrait of Frances, nurse to the children who lived next door to Howard and immortalized in the poem “Beaten Biscuit.”

In 1898, Shadows on the Wall, her first book combining the portraits and poetry, was published. It was well received, and three more collections of portraits and verse were published before she died in 1905.

Among the most popular of her poems is “Beaten Biscuit,” the cooking philosophy of a proud woman who worked next door and was known as “Aunt Frances” to most. When asked for the recipe—called ‘rule’ back in the day—for her delicious, crispy beaten biscuits, she doesn’t mind sharing it. After all, it’s just the ingredients. She reasons:

Of course I’ll gladly give de rule

     I meks beat-biscuit by,

Dough I ain’t sure dat you will mek

     Dat bread de same as I.

‘Case cookin’s like religion is—

     Some’s ‘lected and some ain’t,

An’ rules don’t know more mek a cook

     Den sermons make a Saint.

               –Howard Weeden, from “Beaten Biscuit”

The poem was so appreciated by readers in the U.S. and abroad that many wrote to Howard requesting copies of the portrait of Frances that accompanies the poem to hang in their own homes.

As I stood eye-to-eye with Frances in the hallway upstairs, and with the banjo player in the bedroom, and with the many others whose every wisp of hair, twinkle of eye, and crease of forehead Howard captured in strokes too small to see, I was often tempted to reach out and touch the window between us—just to prove it was there. So vivid, so three-dimensional did they appear on their side of the glass, it was as if Howard Weeden had frozen time for us in a room next door. And for a brief time, I’d been able to step inside of it and join her there.

Plan your visit:

If you swoon over southern historical homes, poetry, art, or any combination thereof, don’t miss your chance to call on Howard Weeden’s house on your visit to Huntsville.

Tours are given by appointment and can be scheduled by calling (256) 536-7718 or emailing theweedenhouse@att.net.

The Weeden House, 300 Gate Ave., Huntsville, AL

www.weedenhousemuseum.com

For more help planning your visit to Huntsville, don’t miss the free planning resources, events calendar, special offers and visitors’ passport coupons(!) at www.huntsville.org. And if you’ll be visiting Huntsville and Northeast Alabama with your family, be sure to see my other Huntsville and Alabama features and check out my Alabama with Kids Pinterest board for more recommendations.

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The post Falling for Howard: A Huntsville Love Story (of Sorts) appeared first on Family Travel 411.

In honor of my birthday, I was surprised with the generous gift of an afternoon at the Spa Claremont,  one of Elle magazine’s “Top 20 Spas in the U.S.” and National Geographic Traveler‘s “24 Best Spas in America.” The Spa Claremont is tucked neatly into the lower levels of the landmark Claremont Hotel Club in Berkeley, near the east edge of San Francisco Bay.

Although The Claremont gives hotel guests–and spa guests alike–complimentary child care seven days a week (2 hours free for one child 6 weeks to 2 years old or 3 hours for one child 3 to 10 years; advance reservations are required), I was very happy to skirt the afternoon school pick-up ritual and head off solo to the spa.

My “momcation” at the Spa Claremont would include an hour and a half of pre-spa pleasures, a 50-minute therapeutic massage, a spa pedicure, and a manicure–all of which sounded like strong medicine to this maxed-out mom who’d been breakfasting on the crusts of children’s sandwiches in front of the computer after surviving the launch of a book.

I was more than happy to accept the “Claremont cure.”

Be sure to peruse the photos in the lobby of the historic Claremont Hotel in Berkeley.

On arrival at the Claremont Hotel Club & Spa, early that Friday afternoon, I grabbed my parking stub and began the search for an open parking space.  Sure, my pre-spa clock was ticking, but if you’ve never been to the Claremont , counting down to its 100^th official birthday with a history stretching beyond that, I suggest you arrive even earlier to allow some walking-around time. The lobby itself is deemed to be the largest of any hotel on the West Coast, and the gallery of historical photos displayed on the walls only help to set the mood.

Checking into the Claremont Spa and checking out from reality…

Once I found my way down to the Spa Claremont entrance and checked in for my “treatment,” I was given a quick tour of the facilities, spa slippers in my size, and a wrist-corded key to my locker. Donning just the spa robe, key, and slippers (don’t expect to see swimsuits here), I ventured out for a quick rinse in one of the most intimidating showers I have ever seen.

In a private stall, I was met with more shower heads than I have fingers. I tried to count them all, then tried again and got a different sum. There was one lever on the left, a second lever on the right and a third lever that was, thankfully, labeled: “Lower.” I decided the latter would be safest to start with, especially since I stood in the direct line of fire while adjusting the temperature. Suffice to say that in a matter of seconds I was adequately sprayed, soaked, all-but-fire-hosed and ready for my next stop in the pre-spa adventure: the much touted Spa Claremont whirlpool.

Gentle readers, please note: The square whirlpool at The Claremont is an above-ground affair, meaning that–once disrobed and de-toweled–you will ascend enough steps to compensate for its depth before making a grand entrance down corresponding steps into its swirling center. If you are shy, this could be your moment of truth. I, myself, wasted no time submerging myself to my shoulders between the chattering bridesmaids to my left and the senior ladies soaking in dignified silence on my right.

I settled in to my space and leaned my head back, finding that the ledge above the water was perfectly placed for support. Once the par-boiled bridesmaids shuffled on up, over, and out of the whirlpool area, I further investigated the matter of the “San Francisco skyline view,” which I did not see as I entered the whirlpool.

Though the Spa Claremont literature boasts this view from the whirlpool, and a current photo of the whirlpool on their website shows downtown San Francisco through the window, the primary view I saw in this moment was the row of palm tree crowns just outside.  As I experimented with different locations in the whirlpool, the most I could see between the trees was one half of the Golden Gate Bridge. Fortunately, I had not come to the spa for its view of San Francisco Bay.

Sufficiently soaked, it was time for another super rinse, followed by a visit to the steam room. Let’s just say, I’ve seen steam before, but as I entered the steam room at the Spa Claremont, I could only see steam. I had to wait a moment as the freshly dispensed vapor settled to see where there were and were not other spa goers already seated. It was impressive. And effective. Fortunately, there was a lovely ice water dispenser with cups awaiting just outside the steam room’s door. I used it–and the steam room, and the showers–many times before one final dip in the whirlpool.

Warning: Your inner shopper may be tempted to take a bit of the Claremont Spa home with you…

Before I knew it, it was time to re-robe and await my massage in the well-lit ladies’ waiting area, where mothers and daughters and bridesmaids sipped citrus-infused water and giggled over magazines, awaiting their own treatments. I was quickly called and led down the hall to my quiet massage room. Feeling the effects of so much steaming, sweating, and spritzing, I gladly slathered myself across the massage table to do that thing I haven’t managed to do quite enough of in recent years: snore.

I passed the next 50 minutes adrift between varying states of consciousness, turning only when told, and recognizing occasional strokes of Hawaiian lomi-lomi between daydreams of packing school lunches–which I quickly snuffed out–and memories of leaping into the hidden Venus Pool near Hana. Needless to say, it was over too soon. Yet I still had a manicure and pedicure to enjoy? O, happy day!

For the pedicure, I was advised to stay in my spa robe, and I was happy to oblige. In a bright, sunny room, I was met with another cup of citrus-infused ice water and, in the spirit of the moment, I selected a brighter tone for my toes than they had seen in many years. The foot bath swirled, the chair pulsated and  I opened my book for the next installment of the tome I’d lugged along to enjoy: Paul Theroux’s The Last Train to Zona Verde. As the esthetician sanded callouses and confirmed my choice of Electric Coral nail polish, Mr. Theroux did his best to burn away fly-borne diseases from a piece of chicken using a cigarette lighter and a modest pile of grass.

A few pages later, I closed the book, accepting that my late-night reading at home was ill-suited to my birthday afternoon at the Spa Claremont. I simply could not keep one foot in the Claremont’s pedi-bath while keeping the other in Theroux’s Africa. As my ankles and calves received a second massage, the latest issue of O magazine was cheerfully delivered to my throne.

A fresh pedicure at the Spa Claremont in Berkeley.

Toes polished, I was escorted back to the ladies dressing room where I would surrender the spa robe and slip back into the street clothes I’d arrived in before the manicure (no sense in ruining a fresh manicure because of a dodgy zipper). Thoroughly confused by the maze of hallways and stairs I’d traversed between episodes of decadence and bliss thus far, my new nail artist led me to a final room I hadn’t yet visited. It was dark, small, and perfectly sufficient for the work at hand: a French manicure to follow my catnap in warmed mittens of paraffin.

By the time I sauntered out of the Claremont, it had been four full hours since I’d arrived–long enough to forget exactly where I’d parked my car in my hasty arrival. It didn’t worry me a bit though. Few things could after an afternoon’s “momcation” at the Spa Claremont.

 If you go…

The Claremont Hotel Club & Spa is located at 41 Tunnel Road, 94705, Berkeley, California. Main hotel phone (510) 843-3000. Spa Claremont phone (800) 551-7266 extension 2. 

Be sure to check the Claremont Hotel Club & Spa site for current special offers at the spa and hotel packages: http://www.claremontresort.com.

Remember, the complimentary (and paid) childcare is only available when booked in advance, so be sure to call ahead to avoid disappointment.

Tip: Certain days of the week, you may be able to get additional pre-spa time. Call ahead to confirm just how much time you’ll be able to enjoy on your visit.

The post Momcation in Berkeley: My Review of the Spa Claremont appeared first on Family Travel 411.