Saturday Morning, January 2, 2020

Masks Required

The Secret Garden

There was no visible house number. It had submitted to the bramble devouring the lamp post years ago. The yard lay windswept, dried leaves plastered against the foundation. Peeling paint gave the house an impressionistic facade. Behind the residence were the remains of a carriage house, its roof crying uncle far too late. On the sunniest day, the house looked bleak. Forgotten. No curling smoke from the chimney. No bright curtains in the windows. No welcome mats at the doors. That sentiment wore out during President Kennedy's administration. Time had stopped.

Good friends, even closer neighbors, Harriet Beecher Stowe and Mark Twain lived side-by-side. In their era, Hartford, CT was a wealthy city, home to silk and firearms manufacturing. In addition, Hartford was the epicenter for publishing. Nook Farm, home to many gifted theologians, writers, and professionals, covered 140 acres in West Hartford. William Gillette, the actor known for bringing Sherlock Holmes's first persona to stage, lived there and, as a young boy, played with Olivia & Samuels' daughters, often times producing plays in the conservatory. In true Twain fashion, his home is sited upwind to Harriet's, a resourceful spot when autumn leaves fall. The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County followed the author his entire life.

There's a property I need you to visit. The voice on the phone spoke authority. Several people recommended I ask you to walk through the house. Advancing age and isolation create the perfect storm. When the world is locked out, no one gets in. Katy, bar the door. A safety zone supported by memories. We all possess them. They just manifest in different ways. Older people don't see the decay. They only see security and no one is going to take it away. Death makes that decision, as it always does. I have to warn you, the house will be hard to find. There is no visible house number.

Howard Carter Complex

Thursday morning at 10 AM our car turned off the busy highway on cue. A road well-taken. Dead branches hung low, looking for new targets. These days there were many. Once parked, we walked the loose flagstone path to the back door. Glancing around, we noticed the surrounding neighborhood boasted six and seven figure homes. This would be an interesting day.

Complete set - 1890 President Harrrison's cabinet includes Postmaster General John Wanamaker, famed Philadelphia merchant. Benjamin Harris won his election, not by popular vote, but through the Electoral College. The wisdom of our founding fathers shines on.

Hello, thank you for coming. But, please forgive the dust. The house hasn't been cleaned in years. Dust is the patina of time. Proof seal of undisturbed contents. The more the better. I see wonderful things exclaimed Howard Carter staring into King Tut's tomb. Our discoveries are not always as obvious. Most take patience, a learned hand, and curiosity. Room to room we walked, back into the past.

Complete set - 1890 Supreme Court Justices. A sampling illustrated.

The faded floral wall paper reaffirmed time passage. Here lived a man with modest means. Most belongings he owned were generational gifts. The kitchen dated 1950. The basement was more a fortress than a cellar. Nuclear shelter? No. Indian attacks. Second floor bedrooms were almost empty (it was here we would later find over $1,000.00 slipped into the drawer liner papers). Attic steps were narrow, unforgiving, beckoning. Once aloft, stacked dried-out cardboard boxes barred our path. A very good sign. The grave robbers had left in a hurry.

What's in a Name?

Meet Charles W. Dailey. A Philadelphia citizen living from 1862 to 1927. His career was spent in the banking and brokerage business. But when the office lights turned off, he pursued another passion. The brown ledger book discovered tucked under the attic eaves would guarantee his resurrection. The information inside didn't contain dirty secrets in the banking industry, nor glued Victorian advertising cards, not even one journal entry. As we turned the pages, our ancestors spoke to us. Here was an advanced autograph collection. Charles Dailey must have worked tirelessly to assemble all these signatures. Most date in the early 1890's. Just to hold these papers in our hands stopped us. We stood speechless. That calm before the storm. A treasure trove of past luminaries. Some, their candles burned out; others, much alive in modern day consciousness. Political. Literary. Music. Theater. Charles was one busy man. Perhaps his interest was sparked by his father Samuel who served in Harrisburg holding a seat in the House of Representatives in the 1870's. This we will never know. The book has survived. In this, we are grateful.

Lord Stanley of Preston, Sixth Governor General of Canada.
Known for his gift of the Stanley Cup for excellence in ice hockey, he experienced the sport through his children's involvement. Forever the politician, he offered a challenge trophy for Canadian amateur hockey teams.
His gift grew. As time passed, there have been three Stanley cups. Now, there's a hat trick.

Baby with the Bath Water

So many homes. So many lives. We touch them gently. Do not throw anything away! has been repeated so often by us we may assign the task to AI. The smallest newspaper clipping, a tarnished medal, dairies. Clues abound. By indiscriminately tossing the jigsaw pieces, the chain of human continuity may be broken. We already threw away a lot to save you time. One more cliché. When people ask us who our number one competitor is, the answer is easy. Ignorance. Everyone has a brother, sister, uncle, aunt, or cousin who is a lifetime member of the Bull in the China Shop Club. Oh, we would never have something like that. Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He arrives to us with a gentle hand, eyes open, and a curiosity unbounded. A formula carrying us into our 106th year.

Rutherford B. Hayes, 19th President of the United States. Autograph from his Fremont, Ohio estate, Spiegel Grove, home to the first Presidential Library. President Hayes holds a place in this writer's heart. From an upper floor Gray Chapel classroom at Ohio Wesleyan University in Delaware, Ohio, this writer, as a student, gazed across the campus at a Sohio gas station. Why? It was the historical marker along the curb that caught my eye. It announced, Here on this spot stood the boyhood home of Rutherford B. Hayes...time and tide wait for no man. Mr. Brown. Thoughts interrupted again. Would you please read Shelley's Ozymandias to the class? Read it? I was living it.

Take a stroll with us Saturday. This, our secret garden, beckons.