Andy Supplee — The Bookbinder of North Sutton

It was some years ago when I first received a call from Andy, a man whose demeanor speaks of careful consideration, of a gentle-natured respect for life, and of a certain warmness and mirth one but rarely finds in the spirits of one’s fellows, these days.

As the locally-advertised knife sharpener, Andy had called me specifically to attend as best I might to his various lawn and garden tools, trimmers, loppers…in particular, I remember wrestling with his hedge trimmer for a good long while, trying to render it somewhat operable—if not quite perhaps what it must have been in its prime.

For my part, I minded my end of our arrangement, offering my services and rendering professional opinions as one who has something of an above-average interest in all things steel, and by extension its use and maintenance.

Andy, appreciative, responded with characteristic politeness and dignity, and we chatted amiably in the parking lot of the gas station where we had agreed to meet for some unspecified time. Five or so years passed.

Last month, out of the blue, he called me again.

But this time—seeking my ministrations on behalf of, amongst other things, a lawnmower of considerable age and yet immaculate upkeep—he invited me to his home, going so far as to email me an image of a hand-drawn map with the appropriate route indicated vis-a-vis my location.

Andy Supplee is a man who lives in a house of his own design—a stately, brooding structure of 17th-century Bavarian design, hulking quietly, even patiently, atop a hill set several miles or more out of the way of anyone who might possibly stumble upon the place.

At the wheel of Lulla, my stalwart Tacoma, one must navigate up an increasingly-winding drive into the wilderness of deep New Hampshire forest until one at last passes the main gate—standing open—and makes their way into something like a side-courtyard, beside which a statuary-laden building (presumably the groundskeeper’s quarters, had Andy not been the kind of man keen to enjoy this position and all its associated work and reward for himself!). Pulling up to the place in my little pickup, one immediately takes in the presence of the main compound and its imposing, stout-timbered doors—notes the casual observation of the gargoyle watch—gives attention by turns to the great-home with its iron-barred basement windows, the green stretched out before it, and the multi-tiered, circular stone fountain positioned to stand in precise Teutonic counterpoint to the angular keep and its strength.

Beside the building to the opposite side sits a manicured, walled-in garden of raised beds, and behind this stretches back an arborway of arches leading back to another garden—Andy later tells me the statue positioned at the center of this side-courtyard is the Muse of Music—and behind the house has been clear-cut through thick woods a carefully-measured corridor—he calls this a —more statues, and more secret spaces.

Doubtless a skilled crossbowman could send a quarrel downrange from one of the upper windows to penetrate plate-mail at some four-hundred paces: Andy’s home is his castle—a living monument to the good-natured cheer and plenty of a time when one’s livelihood and personal endowment to one’s society rested within the estuary not only of feasting and hunting, but in one’s singular power to protect.

The walls of this structure are easily a foot thick, the ceilings some 15 feet high.

In a contest of wills between a wrecking ball and such a castle, I’d be hard-pressed not to put the odds against the ball.

And here I was, a tradesman-Jack unloading my sharpening equipment and case of blades, mounting the front stone steps, wondering after the proper mode of ingress to such a place, feeling something akin to a beanstalk moment.

On massive iron hinges stood what appeared to be dwarven-made storm doors—each one likely weighing more than Lulla—and before these, at the top of the steps, the main double doors of the entrance, locked.

I knocked. Nothing. I peered through the windows, set high off the ground. I waited a moment, unsure of myself, feeling a bit like a Visigoth unsure if his meager prize of silver or bronze would in fact win him a place at his lord’s table.

…I called Andy.

And was instructed to drive around the U-shaped track circling the fountain to the other side of the manor, whereupon a garage door in the side of the great edifice lifted up and the man himself stood there, smiling.

Able-bodied and patient, Andy’s vibe speaks of a methodical measurement and execution. This is a man who, given time and inclination, will move your mountains, trim your hedges, and perhaps, if you like, rebind your priceless manuscripts.

Prior to Andy, I had never met a bookbinder before. I’d seen a fair share of wonderful old texts in university libraries, in churches and sacred places, epistles and grimoires of various centuries and with varying bias.

I parked Lulla outside the garage door, stepped into a basement loaded to overflowing with neatly-sorted tools of every description, wood chopped and stacked against a far wall, and an old FM radio plugged in beside a broad, clean workbench set to NPR.

Andy showed me his tools; I sharpened them; he set sideways his lawnmover; we removed the blade—and I ground that sucker till it shone, too.

After some moments mopping up the tiny mountain of metal shavings and reattaching the thing (and double-checking its correct orientation), I inquired about the well-lit space behind a side door—the bookbindery.

Andy was only too happy to oblige my curiousity, and bade me enter a space wholly unlike any I’ve yet known.

Extremely well-lit and organized, the space gave off something of an erudite, clinical vibe—stout wooden tables stood loaded with glues, pastes, rolls of parchment of various weights, linens, leathers, scissors, specialized tools of the trade. There was a clean, musty smell—an honorable smell—a dignified, stately librarian’s musk—the respectful smell of some centuries of curating antiquities.

Andy proceeded to explain his craft to me, touching on the vagaries of choosing, for example, the French or the German style of pressing together a particular manuscript—and between the hand-cranked presses and solvents and seals I stood there, listening, enraptured.

We took some time to converse—that conversation has also been made available on this site, and I encourage you to put yourselves into that moment, should you desire to enter this world, dear friends.

Following our talk, Andy showed me around—up to the first level of his fortress: the kitchens, drawing room with French-made desk and chairs, the great lounge with its expansive fireplace, Yamaha baby grand piano—Andy also tasked me with putting out feelers for a buyer, so please inquire for prices, should you find yourself interested—and the fearsome main stairway facing the main entrance, built with Panzer stoicism and thrusting its way upwards to the second floor, its wall lined with woodcuts and pastoral scenes of hunting, maps of old fiefdoms, and sketches and paintings of Austro-Hungary as it once was.

Upstairs were several spare rooms, furnished tastfully in a baroque style, and the master bedroom, itself (in something of a departure from the rest of the place) decked out in a wild-western style, with displays of native American artifacts and pocketwatches, an old stovepipe hat, woven rugs, and thick, woolen blankets.

Put into one phrase: the place was a marvel out of time, the product of a singular mind and an affiliation with a certain ordered, Divine provenance. Everything about it spoke of inspired effort—finely-executed proportion, sanctuary, and home.

These days, Andy tells me, he doesn’t receive many visitors…not like he used to. These days, he mostly keeps to himself, plying his trade at his methodical pace, and offering the lost craft to those collectors who have a particular interest in such things.

As I raise up the garage door to make good my exit, I find that for the entirety of my time spent at his home, it has been snowing to beat the band. Half a foot or so of fresh powder rests upon Lulla, with just as much hanging in the air—and as I brush it off, chatting with a certain familiarity with the man who has so graciously opened not only his home, but, indeed, his vibe to me, his very method of life, I am at once taken with the simple impossibility of this moment.

I snap a picture of him there in his garage, perhaps the very last of a kind forgotten long ago by the world—wholly unknown by my generation.

Everything is amiable, genuine, grateful, and honest. As I drive home, floating and sliding sideways over the snowy expanse of street to my French hip-hop and jazz—snow tires and sandbags hard-pressed to keep me on these wild New Hampshire roads—I am gripped with a kind of rapturous provision for peace.

Somewhere out there, one man has built for himself a kingdom, a refuge against the encroaching darkness of doubt, against disunderstanding, against the weird energetic tribalism of our time.

And if he’s done it, then by God who else has.

If he’s done it so thoroughly, then by God…so can I.