On Being that Main Line Writer

I have written of how much I love my home—not just the tiny tudor where I work, cook, sleep, read, dream, entertain, but the neighborhood itself, which is history and horses, big trees and the cracked urns that show up in neighbors' yards, recalling an era past.

Last weekend I went to the bookstore twice, and among the many books that I carried home was Devon (Margaret Depiano and Stephen Diaddezio), a self-published photo history of my hometown. I live on the grounds of The Devon Inn, pictured above—once "the social center" of the Main Line. It was here where the wealthy came to "summer." Here where they played polo and hunted for fox and played golf (my own house sits on the former 40-acre golf course) and participated in a horse show ritual that ultimately became The Devon Horse Show. I went to that horse show as a little girl. We bought our house here because I wanted to be near it as an adult. I write about it each May when it comes to town, and it is featured in my forthcoming novel, The Heart is Not a Size. I lean on history, in most everything I do. I am forever hunting down ghosts.

And so it was with enormous pleasure that I sat yesterday leafing through the collected sepia photographs in this lovely book and reading about man-made lakes and 20-acre farms, piano recitals and a maple-wood ballroom floor that measured 50 x 70 feet. Fire would haunt this inn. Times would change. The massive structure would be other-purposed, until it was deemed no longer relevant. But in my mind's eye, the Inn still exists. And still the horses clop by.