The house was, according to historical records, built in 1862 and described as the following: “with its its tall proportions, pitched roofs, dormers, gables, and multifarious porches appears to be a ‘summer cottage’ of the 1880’s but actually immured within it is a substantial Civil War era house.” ‘Multifarious’…how often do you see that word used today, but perhaps the Yellow House deserved such flowery language in its heyday.
The original inhabitant and his second wife were already living in the town while the house was being built. It was noted at the time that the house was undermined by the iron mine tunneled beneath it. I’m certain that is the reason why the monumental house had to be jacked up in the back numerous times, including 3 times while the last owners were in residence. Even then, the back which overlooked the gardens always had a well defined slope downward. Eventually I became used to that when in the marble bathroom but in the beginning it was an uneasy sensation as you might imagine.
In 1878, the house experienced its first burglary. During the night, burglars drugged the family dog then climbed through the kitchen windows and made off with all the silver and ‘smaller things.’ Six months later the wife died and the owner moved to a larger town in the vicinity and the house was sold in 1882.
The new owner was a New York heiress to a dry goods business. With her wealth and taste, she transformed it to its glory with classical motifs, carved woodwork and installed indoor plumbing. As grand as it became, she only summered there and continued to do so for 43 years. After her death in 1925, the house was sold to a neighbor who purchased it for his recently divorced daughter. In 1940 the house was sold again, this time to a widow and her brother. Five years later, the man I came to know bought it and while there, wrote 6 novels of his own and was a ghost writer for many others.
This is the history of the yellow Victorian that is no more. For years it was so out-sized in my mind (and in reality) that it almost had person status and often appeared in my dreams. Have you dreamed of homes you’ve lived in. Beautiful Stranger?
In my time there I came to meet former tenants who would sometimes come back to ‘see’ the house. Each one was in the arts: writers, poets, musicians, artists, designers, actors and actresses. It seemed like a prerequisite to gaining residence. I was none of them but came to be a tenant because my Sister Friend, a psychiatrist had known his estranged wife. She began to rent the second floor apartment but because she appeared infrequently, was told this was unacceptable. Her choices were to be present at least a few days during the week, to share the apartment with a person she trusted and they approved of, or to leave. I was only too willing to step in. I was smitten and totally entranced by the size of the Victorian which I literally got lost in while wandering upstairs on my first visit.
I was there nearly every weekend, driving up from New York on a Friday evening and returning early on Monday. As time went on, my Sister Friend and I had more instances when we both wanted to invite other friends to visit and when the third floor apartment became available, I moved upstairs. It was smaller but with more rooms and felt like the upper deck of a ship especially when I looked down to the gardens and mountains in the distance. The first order of business for me was to paint the apartment in muted tones. The previous tenants, an actor and actress, had painted every wall red or purple. Being in the 50 shades of white camp, I thought I would lose my mind if I looked at that every day. Once done, I happily settled in, even enjoying climbing up to the third floor on the long winding staircases, carefully holding on to the ornate but rickety bannisters and avoiding the black Siamese who lay in wait to bite or swipe an ankle. The actual kitchen was hardly anything to speak of; it was literally a closet equipped with small sink, stove, and tiny refrigerator. I put up peg board to hold pots, pans and utensils and a large cutting board over the sink to use as counter space. Certainly it was cramped but full meals were produced and enjoyed despite the tiny size. Beyond the area was a lovely alcove which overlooked the town. Large windows opened in and were meant to be egress to the fire escape outside. To one side of the fire escape was a large tree from which I hung bird feeders. I had outfitted the area with an enamel kitchen table and enameled side cabinet from the 1940’s. It was my favorite spot.
That was the setting for the incident of bears on the fire escape. I was at the kitchen table talking on the phone with a Sister Friend, looked up and could hardly believe my eyes. Right there were two bears, a mother and large yearling attempting to take down the bird feeders. Thankfully the windows were shut but I felt little solace from that, knowing how everything in the house was ancient and in need of replacement. What to do, what to do. I decided to call the police. The officer I spoke with was in no hurry to send a car over; it was quite possible he himself would be the one in that vehicle. I wouldn’t take ‘wait and see’ as the solution so after a fashion, a car showed up. Nothing happened. The car was parked, the officer stayed inside and the two bears continued to go about their project. Eventually, the whirling lights were turned on…nothing. Then the siren sounded…still nothing. I realized I hadn’t notified my friend, my landlady, who was in another room downstairs blissfully listening to opera, the volume turned way up because she too was losing her hearing and wouldn’t wear her hearing aides. When she answered the phone and I relayed what was going on, she became annoyed, telling me I should never had called the police because now the bears were frightened. She then called the police station and told them to direct the patrol car to leave. They listened, the vehicle left and eventually the bears did as well. That was the end of the bird feeders. You might be wondering how it came to be that bears were living in such close proximity to houses. Actually they lived in the surrounding hills but because each home had a dumpster in the back yard, they came down and dined well. I expected to hear or encounter a bear in its meanderings but never again was one almost at the kitchen table.
Occasionally friends of my elderly friend, old dowagers from the town would come to visit. I never sat with them but thinking back, it would have been interesting to hear their tales. One visit I recall being told about was the incident of the fermented cider. According to the man servant, my friend had served cider that had been kept in the pantry too long and the grande dames became tipsy and more garrulous as they drank and picked at the bakery products served. A good time was had by all, he said. I can picture it now.
During the year before I left, and I was back to living on the second floor after my Sister Friend bought her own vintage home in a nearby town, my friend decided to have the upper and lower porches replaced for esthetic reasons. That they actually were unsafe was not her concern. The removal and reconstruction took months during which time the pleasure of beautiful evenings spent sitting in wicker furniture drinking wine and talking for hours was gone. When the construction was complete, the ornate wood railings were much higher. Of course there was now a building code that required this but the effect was changed and I felt like a toddler in a playpen. Isn’t it so that change is a bitter pill even when necessary? The one good thing was that afterward it was nolonger necessary to avoid walking on certain floor boards for fear of plummeting to the porch below.
As that summer was coming to an end, I began to feel that my time in the house was as well. Having a small shop in town had been interesting but the profits were very little and I was beginning to become bored, missing my work as a therapist. Being contacted to assume a position in the Southwest was an unexpected opportunity and I decided to make what I hoped would be one last professional move, clearly stating that I would stay for only two years. I sold my belongings, shipped a few boxes of books, packed my SUV and drove West to mountains and desert.
When I returned, it was starkly apparent that my friend had declined both physically and cognitively. Because in the late owner’s will she was named ‘tenant for life,’ no amount of enticing and cajoling could persuade her to leave for a luxury assisted living facility which is where she truly belonged. Instead, her step-son paid for twenty-four hour in-home care, she continued to order restaurant meals and spent the last months of her life in her own world, placidly speaking a few words to people who visited, none of whom she recognized, myself included. It was a sad ending for a woman who trained as an opera singer, developed debilitating stage fright and could not perform, became legally blind, then deaf, living alone, all her dogs long gone, not knowing who people were. None of those many rooms in the decaying once beautiful house gave solace because she was mainly confined to bed. I continued to visit, bringing her treats she once enjoyed but none appealed. I wish she had had the pleasant ending of her late husband, perhaps at the symphony with me during a morning rehearsal which she so used to enjoy back in better days. It was not to be.
The house was sold by her daughter to a religious organization, subsequently demolished because it was deemed far too costly to rehabilitate, and the site was built upon in a far different style. I understand there was opposition to the razing of the house by a few members of the historical society but money speaks and there were no other offers to entertain such an expensive rehabilitation. Additionally, it would have been a very bad look to refuse a religious group its plan given the history of the many town biases from years past. Driving by today, the few acres are unrecognizable. One would never imagine a large yellow Victorian had once been there providing housing for generations of humans, not to mention rodents, bats, squirrels and a few unsocialized pets. Life goes on.
A number of beautiful heritage homes have disappeared in recent years from the town on the St. Lawrence river where I grew up, and I mourn their passing. The owners and tenants were my friends when I was a child, and I have fond memories of birding and gardening with them, of learning about local history, drinking iced tea with them on their verandas on hot summer afternoons. It was magical.
What a fascinating story and I love your detailed descriptions of the Yellow House and its inhabitants. The bears on the fire escape is an amazing story, beats anything anyone could make up. It's long been a dream of mine to live in a third floor apartment of a Victorian. Thank you, Frances!