Everything was different then; my grandparents house was grand.
Even before George Colt wrote " The Big House " we all referred to
it as such. The Briggs/ Birch house was was pretty grand as well with
it's fabulous windmill standing high on the bluff, greeting fisherman and women
as they came in with their catch.
We knew everyone from the Townsend/Weller house next door all the way to the
Burroughs house on "the point". There was a wooden turnstile between our house and the
Townsend's, symbolic of friendship and welcome. There were no fences or privet hedges
between the other houses so we all ran freely back and forth across the properties.
That's how it was.
Three generations; our grandparents, our parents and us. The Townsends, the Lincolns,
the Tyners, the Briggs, the Russells, the Garres, and the Burroughs. Of the seven houses
five have been torn down and the big house and it's two side cottages are unrecognizable.
When I drove by the big house on Sunday I thought it had been gutted by a fire. This feels
more tragic. My friend called it "wanton disregard" for the history of a place, it's charm
and how it fits into the landscape. I could weep.
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