Three Gables in a Glade
She remembered her birth. It was difficult for someone her age, or any age, but the moment was fixed, forever in her memory. From darkness grew light, dim at first, like the first sunray blazing a path into a fresh-cut forest clearing. Then brilliance. An energy and expectancy immersed her, imbibing those around her. Happiness. Her arrival did not come without work, hard work. And yet, in the end, life was complete. A new member of the family, giving comfort and companionship to all who loved her and to those she loved. It is the power of birth, of an idea, of a nation, and, in her case, a house. The small glade she rested in was surrounded by eighteenth century woodland, trees untouched for centuries. Soon after her arrival, field clearing began. Ever so slowly, rich soil emerged from under felled trees and uprooted stumps, acre after acre. A breeze touched her cheek where once was calm. The smell of fresh earth invaded her rooms. Crops were planted:
Nineteenth century elixirs. Grandma railed against alcohol, but never missed her dosage, 9" H.
corn, wheat, hay, barley; how they brought her family security. She felt confident; generations flourished beneath her roof.
Three score on, changes threatened the equilibrium. An unknown had entered the landscape - not man, not horse, not anything she had ever seen. A dark cloud on the horizon soon morphed into a fully engaged team of workman wielding shovels, stone, and steel. Each day the apparition moved closer, streaming two gleaming rails in its wake. And then, it arrived. Her roof timbers and log walls fell before the onslaught. Her stone foundation gobbled up by the expanding railroad bed. Now she lay in a heap, fractured. A behemoth roared above her, hissing smoke and steam, covering the world she once knew with filth and arrogance. Cinders rained down and she lay there, waiting for the final dishonor - fire.
A Phoenix Rising
Lost in her sadness, she failed to notice the arrival of new workmen - laborers, tradesmen, craftsmen. Their steps were deliberate, their mission set. As the days progressed, a foundation was constructed, and with her timbers, a framework raised. The house rose so fast and so tall she felt dizzy. On the workmen continued. She grew into a massive Victorian home: a covered porch wrapped around her front; tall windows accommodated thirteen foot ceilings; molded trimwork hugged each jamb; a foyer led to a center hall, from there to a parlor, library, dining room. Up, up, climbed the staircase past a landing and bedrooms. From the third floor windows, she could see for miles, beyond the railroad track, beyond the fields, beyond the sadness. She felt better and when her family returned, she felt grand. These were heady times. The railroad increased commerce and profit. In a short time, a Civil War battle just forty miles west of her would reach its high water mark. Economies would rise and fall. She witnessed it all.
Nineteenth century band boxes: one retaining 1848 packing newsprint; another, the Lancaster Millinery store liner.
Vivaldi's Passion
She loved the seasons, especially defined by the trees surrounding her. She had lost track of their life cycles over the many years, but the trees themselves, and their offspring, she never forgot. During winter, tall pines protected her from northwest gales, the howling wind filtered to a whisper passing through the boughs of needles, as sifted snow fell around her like powdered sugar. Blossoming fruit trees in the orchard signaled the arrival of spring with the scented air. Oaks enveloped her, their leaves shielding her from summer heat. And in the fall, maples would remind her of the past. Leaves exploded into fire yellow and ember red before their tumble to the ground. Periodically, lightning would extract its toll, the trees always taking the strike meant for her. What better friends could she have ever hoped to find?
She cherished her family, each and every generation, without judgement. They were her and she was them. Lawyers, businessmen, farmers, she was proud of each one, and they all reciprocated without question. Sometimes she cried for them, but this they never knew. Within these generations, she watched the formation of the Pennsylvania Constitution, just up the Susquehanna in Harrisburg, stood by them during the War of 1812, encouraged their education at Dickinson College, and shared their struggle over slavery, their involvement in the Civil War, and the vindication that all men are indeed created equal. Life was never easy. This she knew better than most. She remained their respite from life's tempests.
There was one group she detested - the prying eyes of guests and visitors. She felt violated, compromised, by outside forces beyond her control. Nothing bothered her more than the cliché: If these walls could only talk. She had heard that one to exhaustion. What was the matter with these people? She did talk. From her walls to the smallest vase on a mantel, even the books chattered endlessly. How much more could she say? These felons were just too stupid to understand.
Cookery, calligraphy, & cologne. The requirements of a fine home.
But, despite the years, change was in the air again. Is this so bad? she thought. From a small cottage in a clearing to a stately Victorian home, she had not only survived, but thrived. A snake sheds her skin, a bird molts, but they are still alive, reborn to face another day. And so it will be with her. It won't be the same, life never is. Guarantees are hollow, but life, it still remains the most precious gift of all.
The Long and Winding Words
In the coming months, you are going to participate in one of the most interesting ephemeral trails to cross our threshold in recent years. In the early stages of sorting, we are within fifteen years of 1776. Signed documents, political pamphlets, books, period periodicals, the list is endless. You will learn more about the formation of your country following the establishment of our Constitution than you ever thought possible. From this home, Saturday's auction will include objets d'art, artwork, and furniture with more to follow at a later date. Books and ephemera will appear when we have completed our task. Announcements for all will be provided at the appropriate time.
The philosophical journey we pursue each Saturday has a Homeric ring to our deeds. Little has changed in the trail of humanity and from these breadcrumbs, we are able to share our universality, a pursuit we enjoy immensely.
Hand painted pitcher, a cottage industry of the Victorians.