Lyme Village

History with its flickering lamp stumbles along the trail of the past, trying to reconstruct its scenes, to revive its echoes, and kindle with pale gleams the passion of former days. ~  Winston Churchill

In all my journeys back and forth from Cleveland to Bowling Green, never did I really consider the town of Bellevue. My previous post about what drew me there this week attests to the word having been tucked away in my mind for some time now, but I never really knew what was tucked away in all of those cornfields until today.

Historic Lyme Village is essentially this complex of 19th century buildings that have been collected over the last several decades, save for the John Wright Mansion and Carriage House, which are in their original locations. If you're not paying attention, you'd drive right past it to be quite honest. It's not some elaborately run historic center, but in some ways, that makes it even more charming. I arrived yesterday afternoon and joined a group of three on a guided tour of the village, which includes three log houses, the Wright
Mansion and Carriage House, two barns, the woodworkers shop, general store, Schug Hardware, Groton Town hall, Lyme Post Office, Seymour House, shoe shop, Merry School House and Detterman Log Church.

Our guide, Emily, who is 18 and has been volunteering at the village since she was 11, took us through the quaint village, starting with the 1864 one-room school house. It was used to teach first through eighth grade, as that was about the highest education level you needed at that time.

The intricate school desks and chalk slates sat as though eagerly awaiting use. I was tempted to sit down and just breathe it all in, but we soon had to move on. Yet as we filtered out, I glanced back and momentarily imagined the days when that room was filled with uniformed children, just knowing they had once walked right through where I stood gave me chills.

We visited all the buildings, which I could write a novel on, but the ones that stood out for me include the Annie Brown Log House. This woman, Annie Brown, had virtually lived in this tiny log house her entire life, passing away in 1951 at 82 years old. It amazed me to imagine how a person could live in such a tiny space for all those years, but she chose to do so, even in the mid-1900s. 

The Detterman Church, which was built by John Detterman, a German immigrant, in 1848, is one of Ohio's oldest remaining log churches still used today. It's simplicity was what spoke to me, as well as the narrow pews and Detterman's picture in the back corner.


The woodworking shop was also a favorite stop mainly because the musky scent of pine wood assailed my senses the moment I stepped into the shop, which displayed wood workings, including a casket, some made out of oak and walnut wood as well as pine nut. 


We then made our way to the Seymour House, which was originally located across the street from the village and had a basement which was the 9th Underground Railroad stop of the River to Lake Freedom Trail. John Seymour was the post master and clerk in Bellevue at the time and his wife ran a millinery, which is essentially a hat shop.


The N. Cooper General Store was also fun as it was the "happening" place to be in the early 1900s. 
"People bought dried goods and anything you couldn't make on your own," Emily said. "People also came here with goods to barter and the women came here to gossip."
As I walked through the store, I noticed a checkers board set up with two chairs and could just envision two men playing near the pot bellied stove during the winter and on the porch in the summer. The checkers pieces were made from sliced up corn cobb.

And then we got to her ...

The John Wright Mansion

Wright, originally from England, came to Bellevue to work as a farmhand and married a farmer's daughter, Betsy Ford. They had 10 children together and many years later, the Second Empire style home was built between 1880 and 1882 using wood native to the area for the woodwork. However, Betsy died not long afterward, in 1886 and two years later, John married a friend of his daughter's, Fanny Wright (no relation), who was 30 some years his junior. This house was simply beautiful. The rounded corners, which was a Victorian style that tied into the superstitious notion that ghosts hid in dark corners.

Wright had a winter and summer bedroom based on the rising and setting of the sun during seasons and a passage that connected him to Betsy's room. The home had a second floor of rooms and a third floor ballroom, which he simply built to win a competition as his stricter religious practices did not allow for elaborate balls. One room contained several long, lace dresses women wore then as well as gloves, ornate combs and broaches. Another, had a Thomas Edison corner, with an Edison phonograph called a "Morning Glory" by it's shape and bright colors.

 
There was also a cupola at the very top of the house which contained a spiral staircase that went up to a widow's peak. I imagined being a child in that home and pretending I was locked away in a tower awaiting my rescue ... 

We also passed a room that held Betsy's original, personal writing desk. I could just see her sitting there, dipping her quill into ink, furrowing her brow as she constructed her next sentence, periodically gazing out of the window next to her in thought. 

 As we moved through each room, I felt as though the walls breathed us in, as they'd breathed in the lives and memories of those before us. Every piece of carved cherry oak, every lace curtain and creak in the floorboards seemed to whisper a tale, a moment, a story long forgotten. And being with a group of only three others, I felt like we were all taking in various aspects of the village and mansion at our own pace and to our own liking. In some ways, it felt like I was alone in those rooms, blending into the walls. 

In some ways, it felt like I was a faded ghost.

~ C ~

History, Relaxation and Enchanting Inns

"It is the dim haze of mystery that adds enchantment to pursuit."~ Antoine Rivarol

The very warm and welcoming innkeeper showed me around the illustrious Victorian Tudor Inn, gave me my one and only key to my room … I haven’t seen him since. He wasn't feeling very well, so I assumed he went to lay down, but I’ve yet to hear a single soul all night. I realize I'm the only one staying in the Inn tonight. Every room is lavishly decorated with ornate Victorian décor, ranging from intricately carved chair legs to flowers, crimson red accent pillows, black and white stills and lace. When I first arrived, Richard, the innkeeper, told me I was welcome to every main room on the first floor, to the kitchen as though it were my own and welcome to the array of wine choices.

I'd just come from Historic Lyme Village, which I will write about in a separate entry. My experience at this Inn seems to demand my current attention. So, here I sit, in what I would imagine was the formal sitting room or parlor of the home in its infancy with a glass of white wine next to me and the smell of dark, antiquated wood tickling my nose. I could just imagine the women back then, donning their richly colored, elegant dresses and lace gloves as they sat upright in their chairs delving into the latest town gossip.

The wine bottles in the kitchen are all half or three quarters empty, teasing in their phantom traces of life. Everything around me seems to gravitate to my center, even the creaks of this enchanting home. My imagination may be bursting at the seams, overcoming logic in a way it hasn't in years. I feel strange sitting in this room, alone, staring at the dark burgundy walls, plush carpets and low hanging chandelier in the dining room next to me. I feel as though I’m in between worlds.

The innkeeper upgraded my room as well, giving me the “Nautica Suite” with a gorgeous high-rise, four-post canopy bed and large bathroom with a jacuzzi framed by candles. I loved everything about it, including the soft ruby carpet and various shades of blue Victorian print on the canopy, bed, accent pillows and chairs. And the room had its quirks, like a door I keep fiddling with because it falls slightly ajar every time I enter or leave unless I lock it into place.

I also decided it was high time for a professional massage, so I treated myself to one as well. She came right to room and dug into pockets of tension I didn’t even realize existed. And before I was drawn to my keyboard and this parlor, I immersed myself into steaming hot water and let it drive away any remaining tension I had left today. As Sylvia Plath once said: "There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them."

And as the candlelight flickered off the rising steam and lavender-hued backdrop of the walls surrounding me, I couldn’t help but smile as I told myself I was here, in this place I decided to come to on a whim, and down the road, whenever I feel lost again, I can remember this moment and how at ease I felt. I can remember the traces of a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. I can recall what it felt like to just breathe …

So, as I sat in the front room, not able to access wireless and having spotty cell phone reception, I decide to take the hint and remain unplugged for the night. I'd also decided to continue following that inner voice and ventured outside on the front porch swing. As I rocked slowly back and forth, the metronome-like creek of the swing beneath me, I watched people and cars pass by, feeling as though I sat behind a sheet of glass, a translucent vale, unable to reach out or speak to them, somehow tied to this house and another time. I could practically feel its long-stemmed fingers softly tug at the outer edges of my conscious.  

I got up and walked down and around the house. When I returned, I suddenly heard a sharp, insistent “meow” next to me, causing me to jump a bit and look down to find a gray cat with black stripes and stark green eyes looking at me with both uncertain caution and immense familiarity.

She feverishly cried and rubbed against me as though both lost and found at the same time. I knelt down as she circled me and felt her follow me easily into the dark as I descened the concrete stone steps to the side of the house and gazed up at my room’s lit windows. I quickly realized not a single other room’s windows were lit, not even the innkeeper’s. A chill rolled down my spine as my new feline companion softly murmured next to my leg. I turned back around to return to the porch and as I began my ascent, I turned back to look for her, but all I found were shadows … she was gone.

I went back inside the house, feeling it rumble with every passing truck, its tremble sliced right through me. Eventually, sleep pulled at my eyelids, causing me to finally give in. After all, I’d been given much more than I’d hoped for tonight, despite a furrowed mind and struggling heart. I’d been given a glimpse of past chapters of history and allowed them to embrace me, fill me, hauntingly inspire me. In truth, where I’d been searching for balance, I’ve found much more … I’ve found a missing puzzle piece I didn’t even realize was lost.

And as I sank into the feather topped bed and fluffy pillows, feeling sleep begin to envelope me, I heard a jingling at my door. When I checked, thinking maybe the innkeeper finally received my two earlier phone calls about accessing wireless, I opened the door to no one. Perplexed, a little scared and equally fascinated, I returned to bed and just as sleep began to reclaim me once more, I heard that same soft jingling, but this time, I just smiled and gave in to my dreams. 

This morning, I woke up, hazy, as though still unconscious. Strange how the sunlight pouring through my windows made me feel as though the previous evening had just been some hauntingly beautiful dream. I open my door and immediately smelled bacon and eggs. Richard was downstairs making French toast with bacon and a bowl of fruit for me. He apologized for having virtually conked out from medicine his doctor gave him yesterday and missing my calls. I tell him it's OK. Something tells me it was supposed to be that way. He tells me about other residents "strange" experiences here as well as the home's history.

It was built in 1908 and owned by The Greenslades, which were prominent business and civic leaders and board members of the city's First National Bank. It was built onto a carriage house that was originally in this location, but has since been moved to Historic Lyme Village for display as a "Cobbler's House." One of the home's previous owners also owned a funeral home nearby. Richard said oftentimes, if anyone does have an odd experience, it's been very subtle, like a piece of jewelry or some other item being moved or a knock at the door. I told him about the jingling ... he shook his head and nervously laughed before we moved onto a new topic. He suggests today's historic visit should be The Rutherford B. Hayes Presidential Center in Fremont. This is the second person who has mentioned it, so I've decided that's where I'm going.

And as I made my way back up to my room, unlocked my door and shut it behind me, I stopped, turned around and stared at the door knob.

This time, it closed just fine.

~ C ~