In this issue we travel to Hockessin, a bedroom hamlet that lies tucked on the tax free side of the semicircle that forms Delaware’s northwestern border with Pennsylvania. There, among the light smell of refined manure from the local mushroom farms and the not-so-distant roar of hazardous-material-hauling trucks making their way to secret government dumping sites in nearby Lancaster County, the Roat family has carved out a unique clutter of organized chaos that is the hallmark of sweathog style. In the first installment of this two-part series, we’ll explore the outer reaches of their one acre exurban estate and discover why their neighbors are on a first-name basis with several county code enforcement officers.
First time visitors are directed to park on scraggy section of the yard protected by a slowly dying old growth hardwood that was fatally impaled by a mailbox mount several decades ago.
“The more you mash it down, the less I gotta cut it,” comments an exuberant boutique beer toting Rich Roat as he stands on a slightly dislodged slate step. “That section is mostly weeds anyway.” Upon stepping out of the car we immediately notice small potholes in the aging gray asphalt, a sharp contrast to the neighbors’ judiciously seal-coated blacktop.
As in any household, elements such as driveways can be retasked to suit several purposes in the spirit of suburban efficiency. This roadside-find scrap wood fired Weber grill cooks the flavorful history of thousands of steaks, burgers, chicken thighs, plank salmon and the occasional oil-soaked zucchini into every meal. A low-maintenance culinary solution, the Weber even discards its own ashes by draining them out of the bottom vent to be washed away in the next rainstorm.
The artfully crenated driveway gives way to a windowless faux wood grain white Clopay aluminum garage door that strains against squeaky bearings and crooked tracks to reveal dusty monuments to present as well as abandoned hobbies. A single incandescent 40-watt bulb casts a gloomy shadow on against a 52 Willys pickup whose accessible flat surfaces serve as ad-hoc storage spaces as lead substitute-infused gasoline decomposes in its carburetor’s float bowl between runs to the oil recycling center in nearby Newark.
A reclaimed Corian work surface and the sweet smell of citrus degreaser speaks volumes of bicycle chain cleaning adventures, failed two-stroke trimmer rebuilds, vintage license plate bracket fabrications and two-liter soda bottle air-water rocket projects. Just a few cable and hose tripping feet from the work area is an uncharacteristically well organized two-tiered Craftsman toolbox that is only missing a single 15 mm open-box wrench.
The most prominent sweathog chic designers have always maintained that multiple outbuildings are the key to accumulating as much junk as possible and keeping it in relatively serviceable condition. With two classic timber framed sheds, the Roats have provided dry storage for several generations of pedal- and motor-driven vehicles as well as a comfortable habitat for rodents ranging from the eastern field mice who snack on last year’s uncultivated grass seed to several wily groundhogs who lay claim to most of the early-season vegetables.
Dead and decomposing vegetation is also the hallmark of any well groomed sweathog gardens. A decaying trunk visually delineates the property’s rear border while providing a semi-permanent attachment point for the green enameled “varmint barrier” that runs the entire inner perimeter of the split-rail fence except were torn away when caught on the jagged broken mower deck edge guide.
A deceased Norway maple dominates the Roat’s outdoor environment by casting erie shadows over a large leader that was culled a few months before in a vain rescue attempt. Always industrious, the Roat children have converted the maple’s grounded parts into a game of skill where they try to avoid falling branches while keeping their balance on the uneven broken bark surface.
Without the specter of overpriced weed and seed mixes, wasteful watering, and nitrogen-based fertilizers, hundreds of plant genera abound in the Roat’s lush multi-colored lawn. Strategic sections have been allowed to grow wild, conveniently hiding white PVC septic tank inspection plugs and unwanted venti iced latte cups discarded by passing Hockessin haus fraus who did not want to get water spots on their burled walnut trim.
In classic suburban back-40 style, the Roats have reserved a pleasant shady section in the corner of their property to store any yard trash that upsets their recycling sensibilities or cannot be eliminated until the state department of natural resources lifts the burning ban in late autumn. Rotting groundfall apples intermingle with irregular chunks of concrete, odd-sized red bricks and unused cinder blocks.
Next week, the always gracious Roats will open their inner sanctum to all SL readers to show how they’ve found a delightful balance between non-period antiques, threadbare fixtures and overpriced appliances.
