LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOut: Holy bungalow, these cottages sure ain't cheesy! |
by Fay Jacobs |
Apparently, Rehoboth Beach used to have rustic cottages you could tour. Real summer places, with skimpy outdoor shower faucets, plank floors caked with sand and furniture capable of surviving wet, mildewy towels. My family used to call them bungalows.
Well, for over 50 years, the Rehoboth Art League has been hosting its wonderful Cottage Tour and, just like everything else in life, evolution has had its impact. These days it's definitely not your grandmother's summer cottage tour. Now you can debate whether change is good or bad all you want, but nowadays the Art League's Cottage Tour is part decorator showcase, part art appreciation and part eat-your-heart-out-that-you-didn't-buy-property-in-Rehoboth-when-it-was-affordable-day. I went on the League's most recent Cottage Tour and besides seeing some fabulous homes, the throngs tromping through the residences were as entertaining as the tour itself. While it's very generous of the hosts to open their homes for the benefit of charitypart to the Art League, part to the American Cancer SocietyI wonder if they had any idea of the kind of scrutiny they'd face. To the Art League's credit, there were little signs everywhere reminding people not to touch things since they were the host's personal belongings. Let's face it, the cottage tour is a nosy person's dream come true. You get to check out the decor and personal effects of people you don't even know. What better fun than to peer into other people's living rooms, dens, bedrooms and closets. And speaking of closets, some of the cottage owners, by letting the troops in for the tour, made a point of coming out of them. I loved the house with the framed National Coming Out Day poster in a guest room and copies of Letters casually displayed in visible places. More fun still, in one living room there was a dramatic Andrew Criss portrait of the homeowners. Two grey-haired ladies entered behind me. "Look at the lovely piano, and that wonderful paint...My word, that's two men. Oh my." Enraptured, they stared, inert, at the painting until I thought their little straw handbags, not to mention their teeth, would fall to the floor. It begs the question of exactly where in Rehoboth they've been, besides the Anna Hazzard Museum. As the ladies toddled off, their little summer white stack heels clacking on the hardwood floors, they made a point of looking at all the personal photos in the roomsconfirming what they saw in oil downstairs. The pair seemed to suffer no ill effects from the initial shock, but I actually think they enjoyed a sort of naughty pleasure as they looked around. At another rainbow abode, the homeowner was upstairs, gleefully showing enthralled visitors a Barbra Steisand video on his high definition TV. This caused the tour to back up like Saturday at Five Points. "Turn off the TV" instructed the downstairs Art League docent, "we've got to get things moving!" The home, filled with movie memorabilia and copious posters of Tom Cruise had dozens of people convinced that the owner knew Tom Cruise personally. "Why else would he have his pictures all over the place?" they demanded of the docents. Why, indeed. For the record, the tour was divided between straight and gay households, as well as straight and gay tourists. And all of the homes were magnificent in their own ways. It's interesting to note that by looking at the bookshelves you couldn't always tell a book owner's orientation by the book covers. Sure, there were lots of fine art books and intriguing design tomes, but houses on both teams had John Grisham hardbacks and other popular fiction. A non-gay household had the latest Judy Garland bio. Go figure. I loved the "cottage" with the requisite outdoor shower for sand reclamation. This rustic outdoor shower had two separate stalls, a dressing area complete with mirrors and hand lotion, and enough room for a seated attendant collecting tips, if they so chose. Then there was the house with a master bath we hoi polloi only dream about. You'd need roller blades to get from the sink to the tub and we could hold Sundance there if need be. With throngs of people tromping through the homes (1,400 over two days), the charity-minded proprietors all chose different ways to wait out the busybody invitationalhosting in the kitchen, offering refreshments; hiding in the kitchen, hoping to remain anonymous; or taking refuge at the beach, and reappearing only when it was safe to come out of the water. For the most part, the cottage-peekers were very well-behaved, ooh-ing and ahhhh-ing at the properties, dcor, art and statuary. The army of volunteer docents, schooled by the homeowners, could point out particularly wonderful pieces of art or fill visitors in on the history or idiosyncrasies of each home. Every now and then a persnickety person would work themselves into a sweat locating an errant dust bunny and cluck a tongue. At that point I started to fantasize about being asked to show my miniature manse on next year's tour. The crowd, after cutting their way through dust bunny jungle would be greeted by a docent well-schooled in the attributes of the property. "On your right, please notice the gouge in the carpet, gnawed by the dog. Over here, you have the stunning Ethan Allen bedroom suite, with the foot of the armoire hacked into a teething ring by the dog. As we head to the diminutive sun porch, please note the striations in the screens, clawed by the...." One of the best things about the tour, of course, is the printed program, with a drawing and complete description of each residence. It includes comments like "built in the 20s by...folk art and artistry seen in every nook...energy flows with the open design...nestled in a picturesque landscape...etc. I can see the write-up on my house. "Welcome to Schnauzerhaven. Dating from 1997, this shoddily built tract-house opens to a backyard view of an adjacent barb wire fence and trailer storage lot. The house is nestled amid small, recently-planted shrubs struggling to survive dog pee. The great room features a high ceiling fan that nobody can reach to dust, while the furniture dates back to twentieth century Johnny Janosik...." Okay, okay, so you won't be seeing my "cottage" on the tour next year. You just have to make do with those impeccable in-town places and their lovely and unique art collections, distinctive architecture and generous owners. So until next year, keep this image with you. It was my favorite. Two ladies walk into a gargantuan walk-in closet in one home on the tour. In a hushed, slow and almost reverential tone, one woman says to the other: "Pants...on... the...right...Pants...on...the... left...I've never been in a gay couple's closet before. This is so interesting." Ain't it now. See you on the tour next year! Fay Jacobs may be contacted at CampoutReho@aol.com |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 11, No. 10, July 27, 2001. |