I have tried several ways to recollect the house my sister lived in many years ago. I can picture it as the small farm I visited in the 1980s when I was a single mom with two young children. There is also the picture my sister found in an antique shop of their house painted in the 1800's – a long two-story building with large trees close by as carts and horses and people make their way down a dirt road.
Though their house on Old Westport Road near New Bedford, Massachusetts bares the historical marker of 1710, it had its beginnings as an inn for the coach travelers in the late 1600s and in the 1800s it served as a refuge for those traveling on the underground railroad.
When I visited the house long ago, I knew that it was special, and even today as I remember it I acknowledge that it still is an opportunity for me to walk into the past. I put myself at the back door and step over its ancient wooden threshold looking over to see the trough sink where I can imagine a pump handle where a spigot once stood, or before that a well with a bucket in the yard.
Its most distinctive features are the unusual proportions of the low ceilings and narrow doorways and the atmospheres of its accumulated years as a depository of human activity. Although we like to regard ourselves as the most important influence of all we may want to consider the contributions of a house.
In the dining room a long table sat in front of the open stone fireplace and above the table a humble metal candelabra still provided a cozy glow to the wood-paneled wall painted in traditional dark reddish-brown.
The house had no halls to lead you from room to room. Only the essentials were considered. The economy of the white plastered walls and a minimum of windows and doors communicated the feeling our ancestors lived with, putting all their efforts into surviving in a new land, as their Puritan ethics enabled them to accept the harsh conditions they lived under.
The next doorway went into the Parlor or Sitting Room where there was a small fireplace and, in the corner, a doorway leading to a spiral staircase. The steep spiral staircase was so narrow it didn't need a railing. I could follow the sides of the ascending stair case with my hands as I rounded the curve to reach the top. I was headed for my bedroom where I found a bed with a side table and a light cord hanging down from the center of the room.
I'm sure the bedroom was not as austere as I picture it, and I wish I had been able to take in my surroundings with a more joyful open heart. In truth, looking back upon this time of my life, I can honestly say I was living in a constant state of adapting to the unknown. Much like my ancestors I, too, was surviving by my instincts.
But with the blessings of a night of sleep we find renewal as the gift of slumber frees us from the demands of ordinary life to explore the unknown realms of our mind.
On this night the doorway of my slumber would make way for a special visitor, and within my restful sleep there entered an unusual discomfort that awoke me. As I opened my eyes, I saw a little man standing next to me watching me sleep. He was wearing a military uniform and a three-cornered hat.
Although he was not a real person, he was studying me and he was aware that I was aware of him. Without a thought, I knew he was of the spirit world and with this impression his blue-tinted image evaporated.
Although there was no threat from his visit, my need for light to dispel the unusual atmosphere drew me off the bed to wander with my arms circling through the air toward the center of the room in search of the light cord. Perhaps I too was looking like a spirit in the night. I wonder, if I were given the opportunity again, would it be possible for me to linger longer with my visitor?