Chris and I were driving on Henderson Road last week, on our way to Fountainhead Park to kayak and paddle. “Wait! Take a left here, on Thistledown!” I insisted. Sure enough, Summerwind Drive appeared, but we were now on private land, so we turned around and got back on our route.
The winding roads and majestic homes barely discernible through the lush green trees brought me back to summers in the 1980’s and memories of a family that used to be a big part of our lives.
The Dassel family fascinated me as a kid. My older sister was close friends with the second oldest daughter in the family, which is how our family got to know them. They had a beautiful home off Summerwind Drive, at the end of a private road that wound through the woods, with a lower driveway that dropped you at the bottom of a stone staircase, and an upper one that brought you right up under the portico in front of the grand entrance. Their German Shepherd, Boris, would invariably greet you upon arrival, as he patrolled the grounds with jocular curiosity.
The mom, whom we all came to call Muttie (short for mutter, which means “mother” in German), had designed the home herself. When you entered the foyer, a sweeping stairway curved around to the upper floor under a two-story-high ceiling, and a glassed-in conservatory stood on the right. Inside stood a grand piano that all five daughters played. The oldest two wrote their own pop songs on it, which inspired me to take up lessons again. The oldest daughter, Tania, was the bad girl of the family. She smoked and drove a Camero and always seemed to have a different hot boyfriend every time I saw her. She once offered to take me home, since she was heading my way to meet a friend for tennis. She blasted the stereo, smoked, and drove way too fast the whole way. She was awesome.
I became friends with the fourth oldest, who was in my grade and undoubtedly the sweetest in the family. She was rarely involved in any of the nasty fights that broke out among the older three and showed only mild irritation with the youngest sister, whom they all affectionately called Puke. I spent a handful of weekends at their home over the course of one summer. We’d swim late into the night in their pool, come in for snacks, watch a movie, and then spend the next day and night eating and swimming some more. Alina, aka Puke, substituted a shower with the pool all summer and, consequently, her hair turned green.
I never remember Muttie scolding or correcting us or telling us to go to bed. She would occasionally float through the house in a silky, flowing robe, wearing a glowing smile. I think she spent most of her time in her art studio painting beautiful water colors and oil portraits, and I only saw their dad once or twice. All I knew back then was that he was a psychiatrist and worked all the time.
I remember when Muttie split from her husband, and they had to sell the house. She moved with her girls to a much smaller home in Woodbridge. Gone was the magic of Summerwind, and good old Boris had already passed away.
Those summers in the 80’s seemed to stretch on forever, buzzing with the potential of a great adventure around every corner. I’m trying to lose myself in this summer as much as possible before reality comes a-knockin. I’m channeling Summerwind.
My Corner of the Village 