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Overview
A National Book Critics Circle Award finalist
In the 1970s, Madeleine Blais’s in-laws purchased a vacation house on Martha’s Vineyard. A little more than two miles down a dirt road, it had no electricity or modern plumbing, the roof leaked, and mice had invaded the walls. It was perfect.
Sitting on Tisbury Great Pond—well-stocked with delicious oysters and crab—the house faced the ocean and the sky. Though improvements were made, the ethos remained the same: no heat, television, or telephone. Instead, there were countless hours at the beach, meals cooked and savored with friends, nights talking under the stars, until, in 2014, the house was sold.
To the New Owners is Madeleine Blais’s “witty and charming . . . deeply felt memoir” of this house, and of the Vineyard itself, from the history of the island and its famous visitors, to the ferry, the pie shops, the quirky charms and customs, and the abundant natural beauty. But more than that, this is an elegy for a special place—a retreat that held the intimate history of her family (The National Book Review).
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780802189097 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Grove/Atlantic, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 04/24/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 272 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Blue Gold
We hoped the house would never sell.
Here is what I told myself: Who would want this weather-beaten eyesore anyway? I reveled in the house's inconvenient location on Thumb Point, at the end of a 2.2-mile-long poorly marked one-lane dirt road on Tisbury Great Pond on Martha's Vineyard. Maybe we could find a Realtor willing to show it only at night during a hard rain when the road was rutted, ideally in a vehicle whose suspension was shot.
Add to that a strategy of benign neglect: if you want a piece of property to go downhill, just leave it in the care of a bunch of word people. Decay was general: shingles had detached from the exterior like a self-peeling banana. Mice scampered inside the thin walls in the winter. In the summer, skunks slunk across the so-called lawn, a tick-infested wasteland of poison ivy and briars. The roof begged for repairs. The kitchen had mold. The faucet in the sink was temperamental. In fact, all the faucets were temperamental. There was no dishwasher. No heat. No AC. No Internet. No cable. No TV. Many of the windows were either reluctant to open or refused to close. The sun poured in on hot days. The only relief came from the old black floor fan that listed to one side as if at any moment it too might collapse from heat exhaustion. The planks on the deck had splintered. Gouges lay in wait for innocent feet. With the exception of the master bedroom, the other bedrooms were small and, on hot nights, stuffy and airless. The house was in a flight pattern, making Friday evenings and Sunday evenings and Monday mornings more and more noisy, thanks to the rising popularity of private jets. In addition to those minor irritations, insert a major flaw: the fieldstone fireplace in the octagonal living area that blocked the view.
From our perspective, the more that was wrong, the more that was right.
At this rate, we were closing in on perfection.
I almost convinced myself that all the years my family had spent in this spot, all the memories, good and bad, were a firewall against anyone else ever occupying it. A dwelling that meant so much to us could clearly never have the same meaning to anyone else. By that standard, it was priceless.
My sense of ownership had a hypocritical element. The house did not belong to me, never did, and now clearly never would. It originally belonged to my husband John's parents and in recent times to John and his brother and two sisters. After my father-in-law, Nicholas deBelleville Katzenbach, died in 2012, we knew the property was on its own version of life support. In the months and years that followed, his widow, Lydia, had become frail, a far cry from her prime when she could command a room thanks to her contrarian opinions — with no desire to disguise them — and a bouffant hairdo that added extra inches to what was an already impressive-for-her-generation height of five feet ten inches. Now she rarely left her lodgings in an adult-care facility in New Jersey and she saw no reason to keep the house in the family, eager to see whatever sum it earned distributed among the children. In the end, the four siblings couldn't figure out a way to continue to own the property jointly. The three who wanted to sell all lived far away.
When I first met John, his brother, Christopher, fifteen months older, was at Yale studying law. I remember being impressed, thinking, These people are going places.
Chris is such a thoroughgoing lawyer that he once tried to mediate a dispute over a toy between two very young children. It was the old bad math that has threatened society since the beginning of time: two toddlers, one ball.
"It is never, he said, with perfect seriousness, too early to learn respect for property rights."
Chris had gone to Stanford as an undergraduate, leaving for a semester due to an incident during an antiwar demonstration involving a rock and a window. He has always claimed that the charges of vandalism were trumped up: the fellow next to him at the demonstration was a varsity baseball player and the one with the good aim. During his time off Chris organized workers at Ford Motor Company, and much of his law practice has been spent defending employees against unfair practices. In the early days of AIDS, he specialized in getting insurance for workers who had been dismissed due to their illness. Chris has lived in San Francisco with his family (wife Kerry, also a lawyer, and children Cotty, Phoebe, and Hugh) for almost thirty-five years.
John's sister Maria (known as Mimi), three years his junior, was a member of the first class at Princeton to admit women. When I met her, she was in the midst of submitting her honors thesis for Princeton (supervised by novelist George Garrett) to William Morrow & Co. in New York City, which had agreed to publish it as a novel called The Grab. Mimi's book was well received, appreciated for the social nuances she captured when three middle-aged WASP sisters gather at their deceased mother's house in Georgetown in Washington to distribute her possessions in a family ritual from which Mimi's book got its title. The plot bore a strong resemblance to a process that Lydia had recently completed in the company of her two sisters, Elizabeth and Bunty, during which they drew lots and chose among their deceased parents' possessions — a ritual in which sentimentality sometimes beat out greed, and sometimes not. The Grab won widespread critical praise. Mimi wore sweeping robes of fabulous fabric. Although she did not ever appear to take so much as a sip, she sometimes had a glass of vermouth on her writing table as a prop. To me she was a Real Writer, while I covered Easter egg hunts and high school musicals as a young reporter. Years later, while on assignment to write about author Anne Tyler and Baltimore for the Washington Post, I had dinner at the home of book critic Jonathan Yardley, who asked if Mimi was still as striking as her jacket photo, taking mere seconds to locate the volume among thousands of books and to flip to her picture in which she was wearing a crisp white blouse with a hint of a plunging neckline. (She was.)
Anne, the youngest of the four, born in 1959, would soon be headed to Bard College, John's alma mater. She would grow into a woman who runs marathons and loves pugs. For a while, she supported herself and her trekking habit by working for Patagonia in New York City, "catering," as she put it, "to the fleece needs of Upper West Siders. For many years our family's clothing reflected her place of employment. John was happiest when she was at Orvis and I was happiest during the Barbour interval. Her mind reels with wordplays, puns, and abbreviations. She never goes near the New York Times crossword puzzles, which get increasingly difficult as the week rolls on, until at least Wednesday. She used to attend the national crossword puzzle competition in Stamford, Connecticut. She said the secret is focus. One time the contestants were given a Shakespeare-themed puzzle and the woman next to Anne was thrilled: as a Shakespeare scholar at an Ivy League university, she had taught his plays over and over. Anne thought: Cool, she will get so caught up in her memories of the complexities of each play that she will slow down and I will leave her in the dust. (Anne did.) Anne's husband, Steve Knutson, worked in the music industry at Tommy Boy Records and Rough Trade and Audika. As a personal mission, he has devoted himself to preserving and promoting the work of cellist Arthur Russell, who died in 1992 at age forty. A Washington Post writer praised Russell for crafting both "orchestral music and left-field disco anthems. Steve created a foundation in Russell's name and attracted publicity in publications such as the New Yorker and Billboard and the New York Times. A museum may be next.
In recent years, both of John's sisters moved to Portland, Oregon: first Mimi, after raising her son, Avery, in Denver, and then Anne with Steve. Anne was the only sibling other than John who had been to Thumb Point after their father died. When the house went on the market, she stopped going.
John's brother and his sisters are voting, I often said to myself, with their feet.
They didn't fancy paying for the upkeep on a place they never used, looking at the profit from the sale as a welcome infusion into their bank accounts, helping to defray mortgages, pay school loans, plump up retirement funds, decrease credit card debt: the usual sunny side of economic life in America today. We were the only holdouts. We thought about buying everyone out and owning the house ourselves, but the math defied us. And even if we could have swung the buyouts, we would have to figure out a way to sustain ownership. Taxes and normal maintenance, without significant improvements, ran to about $35,000 a year. And significant improvements were looming as more and more necessary.
As it was, the months when the house could be used were limited. John's parents built it before the word "McMansion even existed, at a time when people were still mindful of what the neighbors might think. They wanted a simple seasonal structure that blended in with the elements. They saw the house as a retreat. They opened it over a weekend in May, closed it over a weekend in October, and chose the second half of August through Labor Day as their personal time. They never envisioned the house as a replacement for, or as a rival of, their winter dwelling. Such restraint may seem quaint now, but it was once the custom. Roz Chast captured some of the pickled-in-time quality of our type of house in a full-page New Yorker cartoon in which she imagined a new attraction in Las Vegas, The Vineyardia, with "authentic-looking shingled roof," "seagull-and-wave surround sound," "complimentary pre-1980s paperbacks," mildew smell throughout "dozens of 'local characters' provided for your entertainment (nutty old heiress, crusty fisherman, bitter ex-famous writer, etc.). For exercise, visitors could "walk on our 'beach' and look for 'shells.'"
My wishful thinking about the house's lack of appeal ignored the obvious. In truth, the house had charm. In even deeper truth, the house was on a peninsula, with pond water on three sides, leading to the ocean to the south. In real estate speak: blue gold and lots of it.
A house on a ledge to the east of ours was on the market at the same time. An old fishing shack with an outhouse, it billed itself as a "shackteau — a term too cute by half. Built for duck hunting in the 1920s, the house was priced at $2,495,000. The ad in the Martha's Vineyard Real Estate Guide emphasized its authenticity: "No window treatments or painting techniques, no walk-in closets or kitchen islands. There are hooks for hanging things, enough counter space to fix a meal or two, kerosene lamps for just when you need them. Houses like it were rapidly disappearing on the island and I admired its endearing tenacity, like someone waving a flag for a country that no longer exists.
We managed to get two extra summers out of our house, three if you count the final one spent in dust and disarray dismantling its contents and lamenting the loss.
The moving company gave us some red stickers to place on the boxes and the furniture headed to storage. The intrinsic value of what we were taking was nearly nil: chipped Stangl Pottery, a rusty lantern that had collected decades of dust on the mantelpiece, two duck-shaped wicker bread baskets, a faded photo of Oak Bluffs from the turn of the twentieth century, a beach towel with a Ninja Turtle theme. The value of what we could not take was astronomical. How do you pack a view? Can you fold it up, smoothing out the wrinkles, and then protect it with Styrofoam peanuts? Was there a way, I wondered, to un-scatter the ashes of the people and the pets whose spirits we had set loose to roam the property, guarding us or haunting us, depending on their mood. A special sticker you can put on the fleeting nature of childhood or on the inner life of an oyster, mired in muck for much of its thirty-year lifespan, or on the smug superiority of a seagull with a crab in its beak? On how the ocean changes every day, as do we, but we only notice it in the ocean?
Better watch out, a friend warned when I embarked on this account, you don't want to write the "Lament of the One Percent" — a notion that made me smile. John and I met at the Trenton Times shortly after Watergate, when to be a reporter, whether at a small-town paper or something more big-time, felt like the most glorious calling imaginable. I have spent my working life at newspapers, mostly covering the disenfranchised, and at a public university, teaching young journalists how to do the same. Anyone who knows me knows I did not grow up thinking that a house on a quiet outpost with water galore on Tisbury Great Pond on Martha's Vineyard was my birthright any more than I expected bedsheets with a thousand thread count or caviar by the barrel. Far from it.
I do not fancy myself a crybaby. I had a strict Catholic upbringing with its firm conviction of the transience of life on earth. One of my all-time favorite overheard quotes came from a barroom philosopher sitting on a stool in the Green Parrot on Whitehead Street in Key West, who happened to echo my theology to a T: "Deep down, he said, taking a swig," we are all on death row. Only the amenities vary. (Think about it: very few people would pick that as a favorite quote.) My father died when I was five, leaving my mother with five children, age eight and under, and another on the way. My childhood moved mostly in the direction of subtraction: fewer resources, lowered prospects. The nuns drilled us in the need for gratitude, for accepting our fate, for welcoming setbacks as a way to suffer on this earth to alleviate the suffering of Christ in retrospect.
So why was I, though not an actual owner, upset at losing what had never been mine? And where was my perspective? We live in a fallen creation. The summer of 2014 was filled with more suffering than we can understand: the riots in Ferguson, Missouri, after the fatal shooting of a black man named Michael Brown by a white police officer; the failed American rescue mission in Syria to find and free imprisoned journalist James Foley; the Ebola virus outbreak that began in the spring in Guinea, rapidly spreading into other countries in West Africa, including Liberia and Sierra Leone; Malaysia Airlines Flight 17 possibly shot down by Ukrainian separatists; thousands of immigrant children from Mexico and Central America warehoused in the United States; schoolgirls in Africa kidnapped by Boko Haram and allegedly flogged for failure to recite the Koran; bloodshed in Gaza; the suicide of actor Robin Williams. Every day a fresh harvest of sadness and discord. Did my time spent on this beloved property, this Eden — two weeks almost every summer since the mid-1970s — warp me? Did it lull me into thinking life could be different, easier? Did it take me off my game?
The sociologist Ray Oldenburg invented the theory that everyone has three places, the place where we live, the place where we work, and a third place where we are most truly ourselves, where we experience an unshackling of our normal reserve and sense of duty, a shedding of some no longer necessary protective hide. He identified the third place as semipublic in nature: a bar, a café in Paris, a bowling alley, a church choir. My definition is more elastic: a third place could be the bench in front of a piano, a fairway, a garden in full bloom, the bank of a river, a garage filled with tools, the reading room at your favorite library, a bike path near a swamp with beavers and turtles and blue herons. Our two weeks in the beginning of August was my third place, a dependable retreat, an annual tune-up, a lover's embrace. Pleasure was everywhere, from the smell of the taffy on Circuit Avenue in Oak Bluffs (who even thinks about taffy except on hot summer days?), to the weightlessness of swimming, to the drama of finding the perfect tomato and fingerling potatoes at the farmers' market in West Tisbury, to the mingling of limbs amid tangled bedsheets in the middle of the night.
On the island, I felt like a different, lighter person: more open, less burdened.
In fiction we readily accept that where a character comes from has the power to shape her prospects, for good and ill. Place often dictates destiny, but what about in real life?
Which comes first? The place, or the way the place makes you feel about yourself?
I was once told a story about a woman who had suffered a leg amputation as a child due to cancer. When she got older and traveled around the country, she elicited a different response depending on where she was.
In New York City, strangers spoke to her exactly the way you would expect New Yorkers to speak (high volume, no filter): "Hey, what happened to you?"
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "To the New Owners"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Madeleine Blais.
Excerpted by permission of Grove Atlantic, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
1 Blue Gold 1
2 The Shack 19
3 Turn Right, Turn Left 42
4 The New House 67
5 Summer Notes 87
6 The Jaws Effect 113
7 Operating Instructions 136
8 The Ideal Guest 143
9 Mr. Ulf, Famous Writer 154
10 Phil 161
11 What Kay Graham Brought to the Table 174
12 Boiling the Pope 191
13 "She Is Not So Young Now" 211
14 Time to Leave 221
15 Great Dark Cattle 230
16 At Rest 251
Acknowledgments 269