So a few of you might be familiar with "the estate." One of my very great grandfathers, Mark Deems, fought in the Revolutionary War, and his payment was some 340+ acres of land. In 1882, Wilbur Deems built the
house on the property.
Many family members have lived...and died in the house. As was tradition in those times, doctors came to the house when people were ill or in their dying days, and if someone did die, the viewing was held in the house. This was the case with many family members that died naturally in the house. But more than just natural deaths have occurred in this house.
Some where near 1940, my great grandmother hung herself in the basement. In the mid 70s, my grandfather shot himself in the entry way of the barn.
Growing up at the estate with my 4 sisters and 1 brother, we never really paid too much attention to these stories. When you're young, you don't think about what happens when you bury pets behind the barn. You don't think about how pretty much every pet that has ever died on the property is burried behind the barn. Every turtle, every rabbit, every cat, every dog, and possibly, even the larger farm animals that once lived on the property. Growing up, you don't really wonder if these things have any role in your brother dying at age 10 from lymphoma.
in December 2004, my father was diagnosed with a brain tumor; a week later; he was dead. He never recovered from the surgery to remove it. besides a short stint living in Maryland, my father lived every one of the 50 years of his life in that house. He always had visions for the house, altering it, restoring it, adding on to it, renovating it, etc. He always seemed to start these projects, but I can't think,
or see, any projects that he actually finished. In hindsight, the house consumed him. His time, his money, his dreams, and, in my view, his life.
Once he passed away, his girl friend also moved out of the house and we began cleaning out all the items of the house. My sisters and I will go over when we can coordinate schedules and work at the house, doing yard work, cleaning the barn, going through old junk, or just anything we think we can do to help the current condition of the place now that it is vacant.
In late 2006, my sister Keren and I went over to do some work. She went into the house to make sure everything was still intact and that the roof had not caved in yet while i was outside. A few minutes later, she yelled out to me that there was a dead bird in the house. This wasn't uncommon on the area we call "the addition" since there are openings in the roof that let them fly in, build nests, but it's hard for them to find a way out. So i tell her i'll come inside in a few minutes and take care of it. I was not prepared for what I was going to see.
As I go into the addition, it isn't obvious to me where it is. Keren says I have to find it. I look in the exposed rafters. I look on the floor where bird poop has stained the plywood floor. There are remains of bird nests everywhere. I look back at Keren with loss as to where it is. She tells me that it wanted to go skiing. In the far corner, there are 3 sets of skis leaning against a window. I slowly make my way past the obstacles of fecal matter and miscellaneous clutter, looking for the bird. I see a pair of ski boots. I immediately assume that the bird had made a nest inside the boot and bend over to get a better look inside. Keren gasps, "don't get too close!" I jump back. It's not in the boots. Then, I look up, and find the bird. I was speechless. Not in shock, but in absolute perplexity, trying to grasp what I'm looking at here, and how this could happen.
How
does a bird hang itself?
I let the bird be. I have come to honestly believe that the house has been starving for life. It kills anything that lives in it. And since no human was near, it moved to the next inhabitant.
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