When my brother told me that I was going to have a special evening in a special place, I was skeptical. After all, I’ve been in beautiful homes and had great meals. I was sure that the evening would be pleasant but “special”? Special was the night I was the only person skating on Lake Louise. The snow was gently falling and an ice castle, leftover from a television special, glimmered in the reflection of Christmas lights strung through the eaves of the Chateau. Special were the days after my children were born, when we nestled together and each change in the weather represented something new. Dinner would be nice, but I doubted that it would be special.
I was wrong. My brother began to fill me in on the details as we drove toward the home of his older friend, Harman Manning. He told me that Harmon had lived in this house called Homelands all his life, that the land had been in his family since 1690, and that the current house was built circa 1768. My brother explained that his own attachment to the house was strong - his engagement party was held in the dining room.
My first impression of Homelands was of windows. Looking up at the house from the long driveway, I saw a veranda flanked by mullioned windows on one side, probably sixteen or so. The impression was not of elegance or architectural purity but practicality. This was a house which had been built for a purpose and which had grown over the centuries to serve the family’s needs. The wooden veranda was unlike any I had seen. It was laid plumb with the grass so that the view was unencumbered as a guest looked east. The view from the veranda was largely unchanged since the early eighteenth century; there was an expanse of lawn, and then trees undulating with the hills and the wind.
Anxious to show me the house that meant so much to him, my brother quickly introduced me to Harmon and then took me on a tour of the house. It was then that I began to realize just how special this house was and how unique the family that has inhabited it for three centuries.
I felt like an archeologist discovering the first layer of a major dig, except that I did not need delicate tools or precision in excavation. Everywhere I looked, there was a story. Here, in front of my eyes was first hand evidence of how a family lived in a single house for nearly three hundred years.
We’ve all read about the times before electricity and some of us may even romanticize that we’re like the young Abe Lincoln reading and learning by candlelight, but few of us have actually lived without artificial light. The dining room at Homelands is still in use and is still unlit by electricity. We were not eating in the dining room that evening, but as we stood gazing at the room, my brother described the night of his engagement party. The table was set with crystal and china. Candles lined the mantle of the fireplace and several candelabras lent light and perspective to the table, casting illumination and shadow in concert with conversation and anticipation. The link to the past was solid. No matter the year or the clothes, the table hosted people - people on the brink of change, joyous people, befuddled people – people living life. Simply by closing my eyes, I could hear laughter and, the mesmerizing buzz of conversation as if these sounds were lodged in the woodwork of the room.
Every room was like a museum – most of the bedrooms had fireplaces, although the “tour” went so quickly that I couldn’t tell whether they were working. The rooms felt full, with the remnants of everyday life. There were two places, which we stopped. One was the nook encased by the mullioned windows that I had spotted when we first drove up. In my imagination (and perhaps reality), the desk, which comprised the width of the narrow room, still had an inkwell. I could picture generations at the desk, some writing diaries, others letters, still more doing the household accounts.
The other place we lingered was a hallway. Under the eaved ceiling, filling the length of the hallway was a built-in table, the surface of which was filled with stacks of pictures, magazines and newspapers. There were old issues of National Geographic, childhood essays and report cards, Life magazines, newspapers announcing the outbreak of WWII. The effect was reminiscent of the stacks in university libraries. Here was a place in which time disappeared, in which the only purpose was one of immersion in the past and seeing where and what you could learn. Like the early days of the internet when the fun was in the unexpected discovery of new paths of information, one could surf in these papers for hours. Open any magazine; scan an article and another, choose another magazine and read it front to back.
Outdoors, the scale was entirely different. Here, trees planted in the 17th century and still unidentified by arborists reached upward. Perennial gardens sang in the summer light. In contrast to the soaring maturity of the evergreens and playfulness of the perennials, two trees anchored the landscape. At 50 feet tall, their branches gracefully arched downward to the earth. These trees were not weeping; their reach for the earth shimmered with respect – the epitome of “groundedness”. Walking round one of the trees, my brother and I discovered a gaping hole. Unlike its twin, this tree’s branches no longer fell to the earth like a circular waterfall, hiding and protecting the inside. One-third of the branches were gone and the strong interior tree trunk was now visible.
The tour of the house and grounds ended. My brother and I rejoined the others in the screened porch. Jazz from an unknown radio station was playing lightly in the background. I perched on a wicker chair, gathering the folds of my skirt over my knees in a half-conscious tribute to the women who had lived for centuries on these grounds. During dinner, conversation turned to the night that the large tree lost its limbs.
Harmon had been sleeping and heard noises, crackling and then silence. His first thought was that some of the ivy had come off the side of the house. Gradually coming awake, Harmon realized that the sounds were farther off and went to investigate. He was shocked to discover that the tree which had framed the sky above his family land for so long was the source of the noise.
Within two months of the tree losing its limbs, Harmon's nieces (who co-own the property) were questioning whether an 86 year old man could maintain the land and, in fact, had put the property up for sale.
I cannot imagine how Harmon felt. What I do know is that the house and lands are beautifully maintained – not in a pristine, manicured way – but with a patina of care and respect. The fabrics are worn; the pine floors are uneven, the tread of footsteps having eroded a path from hallway to living room to kitchen. I also know that the tree was not damaged because of lack of maintenance. Nature and time have a way of leaving their marks. Would one prefer to be like Dorian Gray, youthful but with a hidden attic of repulsion, or like the Velveteen Rabbit, worn by love?
In eyes not accustomed to seeing magic in the passage of time, the house‘s value is tarnished because of the age of its furnishings and lack of amenities. To some, the damaged tree also diminishes the appeal of the property. Perhaps nature was sending a signal in cutting down the aged branches of the great tree. I think Harmon knows this and is hopeful that either the house will not sell as a result of the gash in the landscape or that the new owners will see beauty in imperfection and, while not blood relatives, will continue the legacy of Homelands.
Postscript - I wrote this in November 2003. Homelands was sold shortly afterwards. A condition of the sale was that Harmon be allowed to live on the property, in the barn that was his art studio. Several months later, Harmon was visiting a nearby city, sitting in his car in a parking spot. Another car whipped by and hit Harmon's vehicle. Harmon never recovered from his injuries and passed away. I only met Harmon the one night in July but his touch lingers, soft for those of us who barely met him and more strongly for others. For me, his story shows the power of connectedness - to people, to nature, to history and to art.
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