In the middle of the week we took a drive, chatting the whole way and missing our turn, inadvertently driving nearly all the way to the Catskills before we realized our mistake. Once righted, we found the house of the furniture maker just off a busy highway. One turn and it felt like we were miles away from civilization: the rush of the cars could now be easily mistaken as a gentle hum of a stream, hidden nearby. We walked up to this house, watching it with each step, and the house returned the favor, peering down at us from its perch on the hill, skeptical. Climbing stone steps to the porch that looked out over the great expanse of a front lawn, we passed into the main living space, and ducking our heads (out of requirement or reverence, I can’t remember), let our eyes adjust. It was a gloomy day outside, and the darkness of the interior was a perfect match, all heavy, thick and oppressive. I could understand why the family who owned the house after him chose to paint the inside white.