Elsewhere on this site I talk about my love of the family properties on Lake Champlain in Willsboro, NY. The house we call Green Bay is part of those family holdings; originally purchased by my grandfather in the late 1940’s, my father eventually sold Green Bay to the family partnership not long before his death in 2005.
The cousins who manage and largely finance the properties had no idea what to do with yet another house (there are already at least ten others, some year round and others summer-only); for the time being, my Aunt Molly entered into an arrangement where she rented the house, sub-letting it to family and family friends from time to time. Molly was generous to Andrew and me, letting us continue to use the house free of charge and, most conveniently, leaving all my father’s furniture and accumulated stuff in place in the house. And, believe me, there’s a lot of stuff accumulated!
However, we always knew this was not a permanent arrangement. Now, inevitably, a permanent buyer has been found to take over Green Bay. The new owner is a cousin-in-law who I know loves and cares for Willsboro as much as any of us, and more importantly has the financial resources to renovate and maintain the house properly.
It’s still sad. I had two childhood homes: the apartment at 1035 Park and Green Bay. The former was sold long ago, but Green Bay continued to be “home” in way that transcends residency. Now that too is gone, and although I will always be welcome in Willsboro and always have a place to stay there, it won’t be the same.
Clock Therapy in progress
Andrew and I were in Willsboro in late June through the week of July 4th, staying first at Flat Rock Camp and then at Green Bay. We spent most of our time at Green Bay sorting through all the stuff and identifying what was to be sold, what was to be disposed of, and what we wanted to keep. At the end of our stay, I took The Clock—the essential ingredient of “clock therapy” and the ticking heart-beat of the house—back with me to the city, setting it up in my living room. There is now sits, ticking quietly away—and, somehow, my apartment feels just a little more like home.
