Somebody is in our house. They sit among our furniture. They open and close the shades just as we did. They walk up and down our stairs, climb to the roofwalk, watch the same patterns of sun fall across the kitchen floor. They hear the wind as we did and the birds in the grape arbor. They hear the rainfall on the roof of our house and witness the darkness outside as it creeps inside.
Have you ever thought about those who came before you in your own home? I often do. I think about the people who lived in my parents’ 1780s tavern and the people who stayed the night or drank a pint of ale before the firebox in what was likely the tavern room and now serves as the large and sunny family room. I certainly think about this at the Mitchell House. I wonder what the Mitchells think of my presence – that the house is a museum that honors their daughter, sister, cousin, niece.
I wonder how they feel about us being here. Literally touching their belongings (with gloves on!) and talking about them and their belongings and how they lived in the house and what they thought. Whether we have everything as accurately as we think. How a private Quaker family feels about being on display. How they feel about visitors traipsing across their kitchen floor, marveling at the grain painting or the tiny narrow back stairs.
What will people think when we are gone?
JNLF
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