#codman estate

Treasure House. That’s how the guide introduced the Codman Estate in Lincoln, Massachusetts, long known as “The Grange,” at the beginning of her tour the other day. It’s a term which has a specific meaning for Historic New England, which has been the owner and steward of the house since 1968: not only the house itself, but all of the treasures therein, encompassing the possessions and papers of…

We didn’t know how long we had been driving. That’s how being lost goes. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t remember starting the trip, but as I tried to think about it, as the question scratched in my head, you brightened and said “There, the house of the golden mists.”

Indeed, the mists gift us with beauty, but only in fuzzy pieces and delicate watercolor washes: a widow’s walk hovered in cloud, the twinkling shade in the arch of the old forest.

We were walking an allee of wrought oaks that lead us to the house- I didn’t remember getting out of the car- and you insisted we go left ‘”deosil” you said. “It’s how we get to the door”. But I could see the door just up the rise. Somehow your urge felt right as…..

In the cool shadow of the house, there was a lilypond. The gold-spotted frogs, of which there are many, guide our steps across the lily pads so we didn’t fall in and become lilyflowers ourselves. Nobody says this, we just know.

It would be a terrible beautiful fate, we thought.

Our toes did end up getting wet, but you assured me that is part of the plan, as we can only walk under the night dark path of wisteria bought without getting lost. When our feet have been blessed with lily water, the wisteria will kiss blessings upon our heads instead of turning us the wrong way in the night.

Beyond the night dark tunnel, jewelweed pressed against the path, and from there we could see the widow’s walk atop the house. Lord Cardinal paced and scaned the horizon for his love. There wasn’t an ocean for three days’ walk from here, but white snap sails could bee seen skimming the treetops of the surrounding woods.

“Don’t stare” you said as you hurried us along “and don’t look in the windows.”

But I’ve already seen the pale souls pressed against the glass. They wore fine old things. They stared at the black swans on the northern lawn, the black swans that danced among the clover. It seemed a magic dance, a binding by way of quadrille.

We rounded the northern corner of the house, and are at last to the door, you gestured that I should press the button. A flight of butterfly chimes alighted a melody.

From beyond the oaks and greengold field leapt a red deer; the steward of the house. She didn’t seem to be scared of us, of you, or of our dog with clear eyes and paws white as small daisies.

“Have you brought the nasturtium invitation” the deer asked.

I don’t know if we did.

I can’t even remember how we came to the house of golden mists..

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