Keep A Good House

Photograph by Sarah Commerford, All Rights Reserved, 2016

"Sarah, wake up. Wake. Up!"  my sister, Anna whispered, nudging me from deep sleep.
"What. What? What's the matter?" I asked, slowly sitting up.
"Listen, do you hear that?" she whispered. "Do you think it's the wind?"
Down stairs, furniture was moving - deliberately, the way a hostess tidies up after careless guests leave a party, carefully placing everything back exactly where it belongs: A chair nudged into position, a lamp slid to the corner of an end table.
"Jesus. Yeah, I hear it. There's no wind tonight. It's her. I know it is. She likes things a certain way."
"I know," my sister said, edging closer to me. "The kids left the living room a mess."
"Stay here with me, Anna. It's okay. She knows we love this house."

Original Photograph Property of Sarah Commerford, Circa 1842

Call me a ghost, call me a presence, call me what you will. I have been the lady of this house since my husband, Austin, built it for us in 1847, and that's the way it's going to stay. A woman simply cannot leave a home where every staircase and floor board knows the sorrows and the joys she carries with her from room-to-room. Until tonight, not a living soul knew about me, although I think the sisters always had a feeling I was here. My name is Lavinia Smith, and this house held everything I was. It still does.

Photograph Courtesy of Vineyard.net

Captain Austin E. Smith was my beloved husband. He was a handsome, serious, and successful whaling captain, whose ancestors settled on Martha's Vineyard in 1650. Like his father and grandfather, he was a mariner and fished off the shores of the Vineyard in his whaling schooner, the Elizabeth H, sometimes for months at a time. Austin was a good provider and worked tirelessly to give our family a comfortable life. When he was at sea, the children and I were well cared for by extended family, and our small, close-knight community of friends and neighbors. We had to rely on one another, because back then, fishermen could be at sea for years, sailing as far as the Arctic, leaving their wives, (who sometimes became widows), to care for the children and their homes. A few adventurous wives sailed with their husbands, like our closest neighbor, Lucy Vincent, but for the most part, we preferred dry land. Life wasn't always easy, but we looked out for each other, the way strong women do, and we took pride in that.

My husband and I had four children: two sons, Austin and Freeman, both Deaf and mute from birth, and two daughters, Althea, a quiet and introspective girl, and our sweet angel, Mary, who was called home to the Lord when she was just two years old. You might think it a hardship to have two Deaf mute children, but in those days, many on the Vineyard were Deaf, especially in Chilmark. People intermarried then, and being so isolated from other parts of the Island and the mainland, nearly every family we knew had Deaf children or relatives. I never remember anyone being treated differently, nor excluded from "hearing" jobs or activities, because everyone on the Island signed - it's just the way life was.

As for me, I am a Poole, and come from a long line of fisherman who have called this Island their home for hundreds of years. Martha's Vineyard holds my ancestry and my life. I have never known anything different - nor have I wanted to. To look at me, you wouldn't see anything special in countenance or stature, but underneath it all, I am a steady, strong woman who holds on. Losing my daughter taught me that.

Austin had a sound disposition. While some mariners were known for their quick tempers and affinity for rye whiskey, my husband worked hard and saved his earnings. It had always been our dream to own a farm, and as whaling became less profitable, Austin, and many fisherman on the Vineyard, traded in their ships to buy land and farm. In 1847, my husband sold his schooners and built our Greek Revival Cape on South Road, in Chilmark - it was everything we had ever wanted.

Photograph Property of Sarah Commerford, Circa 1847

We had twenty acres of fertile land. Together we planted orchards with peach and apple trees that yielded enough sweet fruit to eat all summer, and can for the winter. Wild grapes grew in such abundance, that we had jam and jelly to last us through the coldest months. The Vineyard's long growing season ensured a bounty of vegetables with which to stock our root cellar; potatoes and corn being our main crop, along with a small field of oats. With the help of friends and family, Austin built stone walls from granite, hauled by oxen and cart from a nearby quarry, or found on our land, with which he built lace walls - all still standing, more than 160 years later. One spring, before bad weather settled in, we built a barn where we kept large equipment and housed our sheep and cows. The animals provided a steady supply of meat, milk, cheese and butter, that we kept cool in our larder off the kitchen. You can still see the out-buildings where we dried corn and stored equipment. We had a chicken coop too, and more eggs than one family could ever eat.  Let your eye wander behind the house and you will see the stone walls and split rail fences that demarked our fields, meadows and pastures. That land was good to us.

Original Photograph by Sarah Commerford, All Rights Reserved 2016

Because he knew it was important to me, Austin built a white picket fence around our house. It made our home feel like something permanent - solid and clean. We had four bedrooms - the master bedroom was (and still is), in the front of the house, and faced southeast to the ocean and the sunrise. You can see from the chimneys that we had fireplaces in nearly every room. We heated with peat, and driftwood that our children collected from the beach - one of their favorite chores.  Candles and kerosene lamps lit our house, giving off a glow that could be seen from the fields when darkness fell, like an invitation to safety. Our sunny, yellow kitchen was a busy place, where under my supervision, meals and provisions were always being prepared. As soon as the children were old enough, each one had daily chores, and contributed greatly, day-in and day-out. My pride and joy was our brick bread oven, built off the side of the fire place that, although no longer in use, remains as a symbol of our self-sufficiency and ingenuity. When we had guests, we ate in our spacious dining room, warmed by a fire, grateful for our prosperity and good fortune.

Our children grew to be young adults in that house, and eventually, Freeman married his Deaf cousin, Deidama West, and started his own family, naming their daughter Lavinia, after me. Deidama was an Islander, but her name was from the Greek and meant, 'she who is patient in battle.' That was probably good, because out of my two boys, Freeman was a little more headstrong in personality. Like his father, he was a fisherman, and kept several fishing boats in the Menemsha Harbor, and built a lovely house not far from us, in Quitsa. Austin, his fair-haired younger brother, worked as both a fisherman and laborer, and lived with us until he married Clarrisa, a beautiful and kind girl. Our daughter, Althea, married Charles Allen, also a fisherman, and moved to West Tisbury with Charles' parents, who kindly welcomed them into their lovely and spacious home, as Charles' father was a master carpenter. But even with all this happiness, not a day went by that I didn't mourn the passing of my beautiful, dark-haired, hazel-eyed Mary. Until her death from pneumonia, she filled our lives with laughter and mischief, as only a youngest child can. I keep her picture, now faded with age, in a locket necklace that I wear close to my heart, hoping that in some way, she is warmed and consoled, as I am by her timeless memory.

Original Stone Wall and Entrance to House - Orchards to Right

We lived out our lives in Chilmark, and as we grew older and needed more help, we took on a young boarder, Joseph Fray, who had somehow gotten to the Vineyard from the Azores to fish. He brought his own Portuguese fishing, farming and building traditions with him, and taught us age-old artisanal skills unknown to typical Islanders, so new to this land. In return, we gave him room and board, and always a seat at our dinner table. At one time, my sister, Elizabeth also lived with us, until she took a job off-Island as a teacher at the first school for the Deaf in Connecticut.  Because of people like her, Deaf children got to have the same experiences and education everyone else had off-Island; I missed her companionship, but always admired her passion, and was glad for her ambition.

So, now you see why I could never leave our house. Although my body left this earth in 1885, and Austin's some fourteen years later,  there is too much history here to abandon my home. And, who would have taken care of things? I have always kept a good house - it's my pride and my vocation, even though so very many years have gone by. Since our passing, another family summered here, and guests have come and gone, yet in the winter, no one is here but me. Some would say that sounds lonely, but I like the quiet - after all, I spent most of my life with silent people who knew how to be heard with courage and vigor just the same.

Until tonight, I have never disclosed myself to any one. But I have been watching Sarah, Anna and Clayton, whose grandparents, John and Helen Gude, bought this property in 1937, and whose daughter, Elizabeth and her husband, Michael now make this land their home. All three of their children were married on this property, and my home graciously accepted their guests from parts of the country I have never seen. I am forever grateful that other than a few modern up-dates like plumbing and electricity, they left my house almost exactly as we built it. Even today, they keep sheep, gardens and fruit trees that bless their table. I think that family understands what it means to care for things that have a history worth preserving.

Photograph by Sarah Commerford, All Rights Reserved 2016

I have always been an observer. You have to be when you have children who cannot hear nor speak. From my bedroom window, I have gazed upon Sarah, Anna and Clayton's children digging up treasures of crockery and glass bottles from under the tool shed - remnants of our old lives, now rediscovered by eager, young hands. But of all the things I see, watching over their children as they sleep is what I cherish most. Late at night, I wander silently through their rooms, making sure they're properly tucked in. I will always blame myself for Mary's death. Perhaps if I had kept her warmer, pneumonia wouldn't have claimed her precious life. Children belong in this house.

It rained all day today, keeping their children inside to play. They built a fort out of sheets in the living room, moving things around to make more space. I know it's late, and I should probably rest, but the chairs are out of place and the lamp shades need straightening. I have never been able to settle until everything is in order, because I like things a certain way.  I think I may have woken Sarah and Anna. I hope they understand - that's the way I've always been.

The Outcome Of Things

There it is. That fluffy little thought bubble that pops up over my therapist's head as he looks back at me with his make-me-want-to-puke, earnest look. His lips are moving. He's slowly twirling a pen between the thumb and forefinger of his soft left hand. He's saying something like, "Do what you feel is best for you...Acceptance...Blah, blah...". But scrawled in bold font across the bubble, now bobbing ever so slightly in the soothing office light, are the words I've seen a million times before: "I don't have a clue what to say, so I'll just deflect back to her..." That's psychology 101 right there.

I look back at him. Sensible brown leather shoes - Clark's, I think - Dockers, and a collared shirt with extra pens in the pocket - same outfit every week. A nice enough guy, low-key and safe, like toast and butter - the antithesis of me - a frayed, jumpy string of Chinese firecrackers, unreliably popping off, depending on the day. He's jotting something on the yellow legal pad balanced on his lap; his penmanship is straight-up Catholic school, Palmer Method. A stone Zen fountain on the bookshelf gurgles in the background, and a white-noise machine by the door is set on continual "shush" for privacy. On the coffee table he probably brought from home when his wife re-did the living room,  a box of cheap, rough tissues is strategically placed for easy patient access. I bring my own Puff's though, because really, I can't see adding to my pain by scratching my eyes raw with generic tissues, all while trying to fix myself. Tonight, I'm sitting on the brown leather love-seat in the same spot I almost always pick; although sometimes I like to toy with him by opting for a different chair, just to keep him alert, and me in control.

He's quiet now, having delivered an open-ended question, meant to make me reflect. Being comfortable in silence - that's what we're doing. I look down at my feet, tapping lightly on the Mexican throw rug. He really needs to put a pad under that thing. I reach for my water bottle to keep myself in check. My heartbeat pulses in my ears and my forehead is clammy - any minute I might unravel. Those diplomas, proudly framed over his desk don't mean anything to me, because I'll bet he's never had to prepare for his child's death, like I have to. I wonder if he's planned his child's funeral in his head - to bury or cremate? That is the question. He hasn't watched his child be handcuffed, face in the dirt. He hasn't seen his kid OD or get Narcaned back to life, (a verb you're going to see in Webster's pretty soon). I'm sure he hasn't spent countless years, completely powerless, as addiction sweeps his child up in a riptide of toxins, dragging him, along everyone who loves him, ever closer to bottomless Hell.

Out of the corner of my eye, I check the clock, placed just-so, to keep engaged, talkative patients on the fifty-minute track. Thirty-seven minutes in, thirteen left to kill, and neither one of us has anything useful to say. I'm thinking that the escalating noise in my head might be audible. He's trying to remember when he last had an oil change on his Prius.

At the end of our session, he suggests I remain open to self-help groups, spirituality and mindfulness - all great ideas if they actually changed the inevitable outcome of things. And, of course, he tells me that I have to take care of myself - have I tried yoga or meditation? I look like I'm listening, but I'm already writing out the co-pay check, reflexively nodding my head, believing in nothing and hoping for anything.

When the door clicks shut behind me, he'll go to his tidy desk to write up clinical case notes. He'll list a few bullets all about my reactive anger issues, resistance, and maybe some worn, tired catch phrases about enabling, denial and hitting bottom. He'll tear the page of notes from the legal pad, and place it in my manila folder, neatly filed in alphabetical order until next week - as if anyone can stop time, or put a life away for later. He's not going to write that he has no idea how to help me live in this world without my son. I'm guessing there's no training for that.