Against my better judgment, I spent eight unpaid years writing a book about an architect already dead whose houses were visionary, unusual, the results of the combination of the dreams of clients and the structural imagination of a genius architect. I don’t regret doing it, and here’s why!

In 19__  one of the Mills houses, on a magnificent site, was bought by developers and neither I nor my architect and historian friends from around the world (more than 30 letters!) could slow down the desire of the building department to increase the tax base with a bigger house there. At that time there were no pro-preservation rules on the book, and nothing to slow down the hasty removal of a house of enduring value. Gone.

Mark Mills grieved as he watched the house prepared for demolition. He asked the new owners if he could salvage the front door, of slump glass and bronze. They said no. They had no use for the door. It was just a mean-spirited slap at him because his friends and admirers had presented an obstacle to their plan.

Then he died, and no one was left to explain his structures and why they were important…except me. I had transcribed my tapes from 20 years earlier when I interviewed him for a career-retrospective essay for a journal for Frank Lloyd Wright apprentices, like Mark. I had taken time to record his comments and he had taken time to discuss the ideas behind each house: the structural inventions and the new applications of materials he used; the stories of the clients’ requests; his solutions to the requests. He had not given many interviews. He was a very private person and his career had been limited by his reluctance to broadcast his brilliance. He never had an office in town. He worked from home, with his wife typing his specs, and very occasional helpers. Only those “in the know” in the area knew of his work. Clients found him.

I knew when a project had me. I knew this book would cost me dearly and that I absolutely HAD to write it. Eight years later, the book is out and the first Mills house from the book has been bought by an owner intending to preserve and restore a house that had fallen into disrepair.

The owner is a friend of the owner of this house (HAAS) which he bought while I was writing the book. Mrs. Mills and I had feared that it would be torn down, it looked so disheveled. Now it is being put into the Historical Registry and is in a good position to last a long time.

The event that makes me feel the book was worth the effort, however, is the sale this week of another Mills house, from an owner who kept rescued dogs in the house, and filled it with stuff, with no sense of the beauty of the basic space, to a new owner who is a friend of the owner of the Haas house. He bought it because it was a Mills house, and could be restored to its original beauty. And he found out about Mark Mills and the house because of the book.

I returned to Crete one time after the book came out, in part because I was thinking of writing a sequel to PALE SURFACE.  I’m still thinking about it, but it seems less likely now, since Greece’s economic troubles have turned all the patterns of city-dwelling and farming upside down from what they seemed in 2008 when I first  thought about the sequel.

The book is 11 years old now, still available from Amazon. I’m not sure an independent bookseller can order it any more.  I have copies of the first edition and will sell them (autographed!) for $10. Including free postage to US addresses.  Amazon has the 2013 version which is print-on-demand and they charge $14.10.  (I can’t autograph those.)

To order a copy of THE PALE SURFACE OF THINGS, CONTACT ME.

Recently I read a review somewhere that led me to BRAIDING SWEETGRASS by Robin Wall Kimmerer. The author merges two opposite backgrounds: she is a professor of ecological botany with a phd and full scientific study, and she is a member of a First Nations tribe, __________, and grew up exposed to the traditional view of nature as host, and the ways to honor that host. Merging these two often opposed approaches to nature has made her a complex observer and a fascinating storyteller.

Every page of this book reminded me of moments with my oldest friend who loved to explore the grasses in vacant lots, looking for the beetles and moths and stuff of our childhood. We both were usually assigned to play outfielder in school baseball games, and we spent our lonely time out there exploring the scissor weed and the dock and sometimes the track of a garter snake. We missed any balls that came our way.

Against my better judgment, I spent eight unpaid years writing a book about an architect already dead whose houses were visionary, unusual, the results of the combination of the dreams of clients and the structural imagination of a genius architect.  I don’t regret doing it, and here’s why!

In 19__  one of the Mills houses, on a magnificent site, was bought by developers and neither I nor my architect and historian friends from around the world (more than 30 letters!) could slow down the desire of the building department to increase the tax base with a bigger house there.  At that time there were no pro-preservation rules on the book, and nothing to slow down the hasty removal of a house of enduring value.  Gone.

Mark Mills grieved as he watched the house prepared for demolition.  He asked the new owners if he could salvage the front door, of slump glass and bronze.  They said no. They had no use for the door. It was just a mean-spirited slap at him because his friends and admirers had presented an obstacle to their plan.

Then he died, and no one was left to explain his structures and why they were important…except me.  I had transcribed my tapes from 20 years earlier when I interviewed him for a career-retrospective essay for a journal for Frank Lloyd Wright apprentices, like Mark.  I had taken time to record his comments and he had taken time to discuss the ideas behind each house: the structural inventions and the new applications of materials he used; the stories of the clients’ requests; his solutions to the requests.  He had not given many interviews. He was a very private person and his career had been limited by his reluctance to broadcast his brilliance.  He never had an office in town.  He worked from home, with his wife typing his specs, and very occasional helpers.  Only those “in the know” in the area knew of his work.  Clients found him.

I knew when a project had me.  I knew this book would cost me dearly and that I absolutely HAD to write it.  Eight years later, the book is out and the first Mills house from the book has been bought by an owner intending to preserve and restore a house that had fallen into disrepair.

The owner is a friend of the owner of this house (HAAS) which he bought while I was writing the book.  Mrs. Mills and I had feared that it would be torn down, it looked so disheveled.  Now it is being put into the Historical Registry and is in a good position to last a long time.

The event that makes me feel the book was worth the effort, however, is the sale this week of another Mills house, from an owner who kept rescued dogs in the house, and filled it with stuff, with no sense of the beauty of the basic space, to a new owner who is a friend of the owner of the Haas house.  He bought it because it was a Mills house, and could be restored to its original beauty.  And he found out about Mark Mills and the house because of the book.

15 months ago my splendid dog for 13 years died.  My friends were counting how many weeks it would be before I got another. Then how many months.  Now they are asking me why I don’t.

Do you replace a faithful friend or family member with a stranger just because you have the room for him/her?  That dog was an individual, and over the 13 years, from his puppyhood to his maturity to his time of impaired health, we learned to trust each other and rely on each other.

I miss HIM, not the company of a dog.

Watching Yoda endure pain reminded me of pain I endured, and I felt real sympathy for the strength it took him to try to do what he felt was his duty as my dog: to bark at anyone at the door; to watch me for signals we were going out; to try to give me the attention and affection he always had.

I have given quite a lot of thought to whether what we ask of pet dogs is fair to them. I think dogs really are meant for lives of jobs.  Herding animals, hunting and retrieving animals, minesweeping, some task where they are trusted with a responsibility and they perform it intelligently.

Yoda, my dog, spent much of his life watching me writing at the computer. I wish I had spent more time doing what he would have preferred: walking offleash somewhere, though there were not many places to do that.  Playing with dog friends, although because he was a corgi and short, if a young medium to large dog came to play with him at the dog park, the young dog would jump on Yoda, and that was how his back was injured.  So that play was ruled out.

He was a great patient with medical procedures, but they can’t have been any more fun for him than they are for us.