The Manor House and the Yankee Widow

During one of the last hot days of September, I spent most of my day cleaning out a dying woman’s home. She is a friend of the family – a Pennsylvania Yankee widow. Although she could be very cold and inhospitable at times, I generally enjoyed her company. I’ve known her my entire life, and I hate that her quality of life erodes by the day. At this point, she will likely not make it through the winter.

Her husband was a very affable and generous man. He was a master with pulled pork barbecue, oysters, and crabcakes. In fact, that’s how he became successful and opened his own restaurant. He had a keen eye for antiques and restoring old things, from antique cars to older homes. He passed away tragically about twenty years ago. In many respects, he was the glue that held their marriage and, also importantly, their business together.

With his death, their home fell into disrepair (although, that was never known to us because the Yankee widow stopped allowing guests over after his death, even close friends). The home is a small but grand manor house built in 1737. The driveway is about a quarter mile long with white pea gravel, and includes a circle with a massive magnolia tree in its center. The property has a large, multi-story garage, a charming gazebo, and several outbuildings, sadly all in serious decline, including mold and vegetation gradually swallowing and consuming everything.

The manor house is ancient (by American standards) and (was) filled to the brim with colonial and antebellum period furniture. It has archways, high ceilings, old, moss-covered shingles and brick walkways flanked by still manicured boxwoods, narrow servant staircases, beautiful crown molding, and still preserved hardwood floors. The house is far older than my own, which is quite old.

However, it has now fallen into such disrepair that it will probably be bulldozed when the Yankee widow passes. Groundhogs had made their way into the basement and destroyed it. Cobwebs decorated the nooks and crannies of the old home, doors were rotting in various stages, a hole developed in the ceiling above the parlor (likely causing serious water damage), and mold covered the centuries old corner cabinets and Windsor chairs. The house was incredibly musty, and a thick layer of dust covered practically all of the furniture.

The Yankee widow’s sister entrusted us to take as many of her belongs as we could and keep them until the time was right. The couple, sadly, had no children. I found their wedding picture, resting in a now heavily tarnished frame; it was covered in grime and significantly faded. I considered taking it, to keep their happy memory alive, even if they were not – better to maintain it with family friends than it be discarded or sold at a flea market to strangers. My own family advised against it, “Let them be, this is where they belong.”

I felt like a grave robber, despite our shared history. We loaded a multitude of antique stoneware crocks, dry sinks, trestle and drop-leaf tables, and wing-back chairs. It was depressing beyond description – to watch a beautiful home (and happy couple) decline into decrepitude.

The lesson to be learned: have children, or you might have your home bulldozed and with no posterity to save or fix it.