and embellishing these homes with one feature after another—railings, additions, redesigned windows. However, authenticity was the goal of this homeowner, and inside, all the furniture, the paintings, even the assorted vases and other objets d’art were appropriate to the period. With great care, the crew (including Bill) set up lights and reflectors in the downstairs rooms. The lights blazed in Louise’s eyes as she launched into a prepared spiel about the Early American decor and low-ceilinged construction.Finally they moved to the yard, where the homeowners had planted only flowers and shrubs that were used in that era. A massive display of plume poppy, with its intricate curvy leaves, and masses of later-blooming
Clematis paniculata
adorned the gardens. Old-fashioned phlox flourished near the little outbuildings and in clumps around the old stone fences and ledges.
This was the first time Bill had been with her on location, and he had been plunged into the action. As she did her walk-and-talk through the garden, Doug walked backward in front of her and recorded it with his Steadicam, while her husband the grip guided him with one hand on his shoulder so he wouldn’t lose his footing or step in a hole. Finally they ended at the ancient garage with a carefully restored stone wall that Louise coveted at first sight. She had seen it before in the many photos the associate producer brought back when he did a site survey in Litchfield. But the reality was so much better.
During a break, Bill sidled up to her. “This is kind of fun. But now I know why this job obsesses you: Everything has to be perfect—the lights, the camerawork, the script dovetailing with the action…”
She grinned. “Doing the right thing, and saying the right thing, at the right time—that’s my job, and it is a bit of a trick.”
He squeezed her arm. “Honey, twenty-one years as a Foreign Service wife gave you the perfect training.”
“Didn’t it, though?” She thought, not without some bitterness, of all the years of trailing her State Department husband to overseas posts and acting the part of the perfect woman. She frowned. Was she just doing more of the same in her new career as a TV garden-show host? But all TV people—even the ones who seemed like impresarios and off-the-cuff commentators—actually worked with the bread and butter of television production: a script. True off-the-cuff moments were few and far between. Marty, the associateproducer, Louise, Doug, and Rachel, the scriptwriter, had worked on this program for weeks.
Louise consulted her notes now, rumpled pages of dialogue she had studied carefully, to refresh herself on the next segment to be taped. The next house, apparently, had one of the best gardens. It was more majestic, High Federal style, its mansard roof soaring above the white clapboard walls and ringed with an intricate guard railing. Louise doubted the guard railing had been there when the house was built.
The gardens here followed the perimeter of the yard—comfortable, familiar plantings, but done with style. Tall, majestic stands of lilies, daisies, hollyhock, astilbe, phlox, mullein, and the giant, bulbous purple balls of allium. But Doug’s eye was caught by something not in the script: the wonderful wide
allée
beyond the house lined with tall columnar oaks that bespoke a European influence. The cameraman said, “This will be great: Look how the light is hitting those trees. Bill, come over and help me again.” Doug skillfully kept Louise in frame as she strode down the long lane.” Good,’ he declared when they were finished. “We’ll see how that flies.”
Louise had been so focused on the shoot that she hardly noticed it was lunchtime. They were only two blocks from the town green. The New Yorkers were wise to all the best restaurants within a two-hour radius of the city: They grabbed Doug to go to lunch at a small, chic place called the West Street Grill. Though the new crew members
Clematis paniculata
adorned the gardens. Old-fashioned phlox flourished near the little outbuildings and in clumps around the old stone fences and ledges.
This was the first time Bill had been with her on location, and he had been plunged into the action. As she did her walk-and-talk through the garden, Doug walked backward in front of her and recorded it with his Steadicam, while her husband the grip guided him with one hand on his shoulder so he wouldn’t lose his footing or step in a hole. Finally they ended at the ancient garage with a carefully restored stone wall that Louise coveted at first sight. She had seen it before in the many photos the associate producer brought back when he did a site survey in Litchfield. But the reality was so much better.
During a break, Bill sidled up to her. “This is kind of fun. But now I know why this job obsesses you: Everything has to be perfect—the lights, the camerawork, the script dovetailing with the action…”
She grinned. “Doing the right thing, and saying the right thing, at the right time—that’s my job, and it is a bit of a trick.”
He squeezed her arm. “Honey, twenty-one years as a Foreign Service wife gave you the perfect training.”
“Didn’t it, though?” She thought, not without some bitterness, of all the years of trailing her State Department husband to overseas posts and acting the part of the perfect woman. She frowned. Was she just doing more of the same in her new career as a TV garden-show host? But all TV people—even the ones who seemed like impresarios and off-the-cuff commentators—actually worked with the bread and butter of television production: a script. True off-the-cuff moments were few and far between. Marty, the associateproducer, Louise, Doug, and Rachel, the scriptwriter, had worked on this program for weeks.
Louise consulted her notes now, rumpled pages of dialogue she had studied carefully, to refresh herself on the next segment to be taped. The next house, apparently, had one of the best gardens. It was more majestic, High Federal style, its mansard roof soaring above the white clapboard walls and ringed with an intricate guard railing. Louise doubted the guard railing had been there when the house was built.
The gardens here followed the perimeter of the yard—comfortable, familiar plantings, but done with style. Tall, majestic stands of lilies, daisies, hollyhock, astilbe, phlox, mullein, and the giant, bulbous purple balls of allium. But Doug’s eye was caught by something not in the script: the wonderful wide
allée
beyond the house lined with tall columnar oaks that bespoke a European influence. The cameraman said, “This will be great: Look how the light is hitting those trees. Bill, come over and help me again.” Doug skillfully kept Louise in frame as she strode down the long lane.” Good,’ he declared when they were finished. “We’ll see how that flies.”
Louise had been so focused on the shoot that she hardly noticed it was lunchtime. They were only two blocks from the town green. The New Yorkers were wise to all the best restaurants within a two-hour radius of the city: They grabbed Doug to go to lunch at a small, chic place called the West Street Grill. Though the new crew members
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