GHOSTS, PART II

This is the second part of last week's post.

So there I was, wandering across Powder Point Bridge in Duxbury, tryiing to find a new vantage point for yet another photograph of this most scenic place, which brought back thoughts of past visits, which made me think about ghosts. But a different kind, from this life, from a time that was but is no more, but is somehow still lurking around

Eons ago, when my parents moved our family to Bronxville, NY, my mother developed an unlikely friendship with some neighbors who were descendants of Mr. Mayflower himself, John Alden. It's hard to imagine what drew Mrs. Clapp and her two daughters, Priscilla and Clara, to our peripatetic and unusual family. Mrs. Clapp, who was not very mobile, became my mother's seamstress, and we'd go over there for fittings and tea. My brother or I would be asked to make the snacks, which were saltines with thin slices of cheddar, melted on a toaster oven tray so dirty that even my mother got wigged out. We were sometimes given small, heavy, blue glasses full of cranberry juice, an exotic treat. 

Mrs. Clapp ruled with an iron fist, perhaps ensuring that instead of marrying, her daughters would remain in service to her. She had a cabinet of trinkets from her travels in China and "Persia" that she'd allow us to take out, but not play with, on a rainy days. Her daughter Clara, whom we called Kit, had been a WASP during WW2, testing planes, and later had what we perceived as a serious job at the Carnegie, which she always pronounced Car-nay-gee, Institute. She could best be described as a sober New Englander. Priscilla, by contrast, lived in a Tennessee Williams play, an aged belle passed over but still waiting for that a gentleman caller to leave his card, she was at the ready. With the bluest of eyes she would smoke her cigarette out of the very side of her mouth so as not to disturb the lipstick she wore even with her gardening clothes. Her accent mirrored that of a fifties movie star, she chose form fitting jeans to Kit's baggies and excelled at Ikebana and flower arrangements that could include violin bows, for which she won prizes from garden clubs. They were both excellent gardeners and could fix anything.

The. Clapp family had a compound on Abrams Hill in Duxbury. Mrs. Clapp and her sister each had a house, as did a cousin. Then there were other smaller places scattered around that were also in the family. One of them was a Sears Catalog kit house purchased in the twenties, that was expected to last 20 years or so. It was down the hill from Mrs. Clapp's, almost right on the the inlet's glass-like water and the marshes that had moods, changing color by the day. In the distance, there was a view of the bridge, Blakeman's, the sparkles of sun bouncing off cars in the parking lot and further north towards Marshfield, a duck blind. The house had a small garden with a hammock which as kids we fought over, a dock with a raft, two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, small common room and porch. It was called Triangle because it completed a birds eye triangle with Mrs. Clapp and her sister's houses.

Their family had been traveling up to Duxbury from NY every summer since the daughters were children, which they were far from. One summer, they invited us to stay at Triangle for a few weeks. There was something enchanting about staying in a place that wasn't much bigger than a doll house, with access to so many wonderful things. We fell in love and returned for many summers. I found reassurance walking down the path from the car to the cabin for the first time each season, noting no changes, nor were there any inside the cabin; the paisley tea cups, the corn salt and pepper shakers, cajun spices, depression era green glass plates procured at the dump, longhorns over the fireplace and the chalkboard on the porch that always said "Welcome, Asphars". And of course the smell of salty cabin.

While the high points as children might have been swimming to the island, sitting in the hammock, going to the beach or putting money in the juke box at Papa Gino's, our interests and activities shifted over time. Cousins from England collaborated in an al fresco performance of Lucy Riccardo doing her Vitameatavegamin commercial , tennis became a thing, swimming, chats on the wall, more beach, walks to the exciting new French pastry shop, ice cream at FarFar's.

My siblings and I continued to be invited to Triangle as we became independent, together and with friends. By that time, Mrs. Clapp had died and the daughters were in their late seventies or even early eighties. Kit was still climbing ladders, but we'd arrange to be there either at the beginning or end of the summer to help her put in or take out the porch screens. Staying in the cabin, we'd play hard, eat hard and party hard. So many baguettes, relentless all day exercise, brilliant meals and wine, card games and deep, well-deserved sleep. They were times shaped by significant others, some of whom are no longer around. 

Still later, it was a lily pad for my parents, who had just lost their newly renovated apartment to a fire that my father with dementia had set when he forgot about some soup on the stove. We talked through scenarios, sequencing and pacing. Another time, I found a kitchen table I had to have and asked this guy Hank, who had a truck, if he'd "help me get it home". After a few days at Triangle, we got it home. 

Through it all, I developed a nice relationship with Kit, who would meet me at the MFA for lunch before her Friday Symphony concerts. Every time I'd go back to see her or stay at Triangle, I'd walk around and say something similar to a formal goodbye when leaving, knowing she was getting on and that I may never be back. Eventually that came to pass and now Triangle is no longer.

But Duxbury is and when my mom moved to an independent living place there, Nat and I began a ritual of going down to visit her on a Saturday or Sunday, taking her on trips to Snug Harbor either to look at the boats or for lunch in the sun. Nat and I would often do our own thing before or after; play tennis, walk and take photographs of the bridge, kick rocks, eat ice cream, jump off the other bridge with the current. After my mom decamped for Vermont and Nat left for the lowlands, it was with a friend that I visited, going on beautiful long walks to Saquish with her dog. She has now moved away, sigh.

What I realized the other day when crossing the bridge is that some places lose their lustre when the person you associate them with is no longer, their ghosts lingering on and taking all the fun and mystery out of the place. But somehow Duxbury keeps on reinventing itself, perhaps because it's so beautiful, it's compelling to return. It's somehow possible to hold the history with the new in a most satisfying way.

The day was beautiful, fun, uplifting and helped me clarify a lot of things. The clouds and light were perfect and I got a new vista of the bridge! I recommend it for a most wondrful walk.