Goodnight, House

I was just coming off a combination of a stopped heart, a concussion, and getting my driver’s license when we moved into the house on Massachusetts Avenue, so needless to say, it was quite an arrival. But then again, it was quite a house. Built in 1835 and known as the Hendley Farm, the house became newer as one moved further to the rear. Unfortunately, the newness stopped at about 1952 and by the time my parents bought the place, it was 1995 and as you might imagine, my folks did wish to live on the cusp of the 21st century like most people.

To do this, however, took nearly a year of wrangling with the Lexington Historic District Commission. Despite my mother’s well-documented participation in historic preservation projects, my father’s hiring of an architect who actually sat on the Historic Commission, and even my inevitable march towards majoring in history when I finally made it to college, the Commission reveled in tweaking every last part of the house. (Ask us why the garage doors weigh about a ton each and what we used to hold back the shutters.) But eventually, the family prevailed and work began on building a house that was in every way tailored to our needs and tastes.

Hall of Presidents: Washington, Adams, Jefferson & Jackson. Out of Frame: Lincoln and the Marquis de Lafayette.

And what a house it was. The décor revolved around the town’s history and, as Lexington was so instrumental in it, that of the nation itself, as well. We even had a Hall of Presidents. Meanwhile, the yard was the ultimate expression of my mother’s skill as a horticulturist: in back was a surprisingly extensive vegetable garden and flowers native to New England with a few surprises thrown in, while in front were well-manicured hedges and fruit trees. Lollygagging amidst all of this was the family dog, Archibald, a supremely relaxed field spaniel.

But now it’s 2011 and the house has been sold—in fact, the papers were passed today. I’ve been back and forth from New York a few times over the past month, helping to empty it out and I have to tell you, it wasn’t easy. If nothing else, I have mixed emotions: on one hand, the house is going to the co-chairs of the Sherborn Historic Society, so the right people have taken over; but on the other hand, I’ve lost the house where I came of age and where we buried Archie years ago. Yet time marches on, and I have to accept that.

And so it goes. First, it was multiple generations of the Hendleys, then the Friedgoods, then us. The Hendley’s farmhouse has seen generations come and go and it’s given back to each what each has put into it. I know its new caretakers will look after it, but I’ll miss that old house in spite of myself.