My ancestors are like everyone else’s ancestors, I suspect: entertaining, frustrating, sometimes obstinately invisible, always playing hide and seek, changing our perspectives and perceptions of them and of ourselves. They leave us their legacies and properties, perhaps confident that we will care for them as they themselves would without considering that we might develop other plans.
In July 2017, I contributed a post to Vita Brevis explaining why I was selling the homestead which has been in my family since 1777. I had planned to move to northern Massachusetts or southern New Hampshire to be closer to my son, to be closer to those areas where my colonial ancestors put down their deep roots (e.g., Boston, as well as Essex and Bristol Counties), and to spend less of my retirement money propping up a 240-year-old house, and more on the fun things of life.
Apparently, my ancestors had other ideas, and provided enough brick walls to scotch the whole idea despite many historic property-loving buyers. After multiple, full-cash but incomplete offers, here we stay. For instance, one buyer found that it’s pointless to buy this property in order to open a gravel pit where there are no gravel deposits. (If anyone is in the market for a clay supply, though, call me!)
After multiple, full-cash but incomplete offers, here we stay.
My roots here are deeper than I thought and have quietly and securely tethered me to this land and this place. Like my family tree shows, those roots are knotted, lengthy, sometimes wholly confusing. I thought I’d take my family history and those knotty roots with me to those towns where my colonial family history began. I’ve found that my part in the family history belongs here and means to stay here in the family house, a few hundred yards from the family cemetery. Son appreciates the value of keeping the house in the family and is becoming more involved in the history of the house as well as the family stories. He’ll be the best old-house steward when I finally admit defeat. Obviously, I’m not done here yet; nor, it seems, are my ancestors finished with me. These pesky forebears must know more of what the future holds than I do.
Since we took the property off the market, we have successfully accomplished more research, uncovered long-buried family stories, and with Husband and Son have continued to restore, improve, and maintain the buildings. The builder, Asa Williams, certainly should be smiling: he’s won!
Husband says I’m chained to this land just as my father was. I think my ancestors just wrapped a knot of family roots around me. Yes, I blame them for knowing what’s best for me better than I know myself. They seem to know that there will always be more research to do on my pesky ancestors who lived here, more stories to uncover about their daily lives in this community and in the Old Fort Western settlement, and always more upkeep on My Old House. A new chain will be forged for Son, so I’ll do what I can to help him write the new chapter for His Old House. The new beginning is here, so I’ll scrape a few more layers of old wallpaper off the walls, rebuild the garden beds, try to gather the black walnuts before the squirrels do, and enjoy – still – the aroma from a cold kitchen of hot apple pie and coffee at three in the morning when we’re still in bed.
It may have been the long way home (having never left), and my ancestors have given me my forehead-slapping “duh” moment: I’ll continue to be the steward of this family property as best I can, leaving to future stewards a better, if lengthier, legacy with all its knotted roots. I’ll try to bloom where I’m planted (just not too soon in that family cemetery, please).