I left the Dubois Manor in Dubois Pennsylvania around 9am. According to Google, it was just under 4 and one half hours from there to the old farmhouse on 86 acres in New Jersey that my father had bought in 1943.
In all the years of driving back and forth to the house, from Jersey City, or Manhattan, I’d always approached from the East.
This time, I was arriving from the west—the very far west. I had left my home in Venice, California, for the third time in two years, to drive across county. After decades of anticipation, disappointment, anger, mourning, loss, my sister and I were now the owners of the old house.
My parents had bought the house before any of us were born. We lived in an apartment in Jersey City. This was the only house the family ever owned and throughout the fifties and sixties, we spent all of our summers there as well as driving out for weekends throughout the year.
On into seventies, my parents continued to think of it as their primary residence. When my husband and I moved to Los Angeles in 1976, re returned regularly to visit them there. Soon after my father died in 1978, my mother moved from Jersey City to Manhattan, but continued to spend a good deal of time in New Jersey. In 1984, when she was in poor health, my mother asked if we would be willing to stay in the country with her, and given the precarious state of all things, I moved in with my husband and Sarah, our seven year old daughter.
While there we became embroiled in a dispute with my brother. We left. My mother died a year and a half later. At the reading of the will, we learned that my father’s will had been abrogated, and in the terms of my mother’s will—my sister, brother and I all owned the house, but my brother had a life estate, which meant it was his to maintain and manage. We had no rights to go there during his lifetime.
Flash forward to May of this year. I am no longer married. The children are grown and tending more towards the east coast than California.
Although my brother had possession of the house for the past twenty years, he rarely used it. It became host to thousands of bats as well as a fair number of squirrels, chipmunks and all sorts of rodents.
We had been involved in negotiations with the Green Acres program of the State of New Jersey and my brother for over five years. (this is a long story, which I will hold for a bit). But, thanks to the moneys set aside for preservation of wild life habitat in the state, and the fact that New Jersey had recently bought 1000 acres of adjacent land, we were able to sell 80 of our acres, including the lake, to be preserved as wilderness forever. With our shares of the money we got from the state, my sister and I bought out our brother---and with the money I had left over, minus funds set aside for taxes, emergencies and lawyers fees, I am about to do as much as funds will allow to make the house livable.
I knew from my March visit that the house was in dreadful condition. The porch was collapsing (in fact, a few weeks before my arrival, the already deteriorating porch was further damaged by the collapse of half a maple tree onto the roof), we had been told there were thousands of bats in occupancy, the pipes had all been broken, there was water damage through the house which had stood almost abandoned for over twenty years. I knew the house was saturated with foul odors, was full of animal dwellings, and who knows what else.
I cannot tell a lie—the prospect of all of this—while exciting in theory—actually filled me with dread. I kept putting off my departure from Los Angeles, found myself lingering at the Webster’s farm in Iowa, in fact tried to loiter as much as possible as I made way across.
But here I was. I had never approached from the west (at least not in my memory). I crossed the Delaware into New Jersey and exited Route 80 to head north on 94. It's gorgeous country--not western spectacular--but green fields, rolling hills, late spring flowering excitement. As I entered Blairstown, the first town after the exit, , a deer crossed the road--not across fields or woods, but from one suburban driveway to another.
The house--well--what can I say? It's no longer a shock to me--but it is really a falling down building. But--now--after spending a few days there, I am feeling more optimistic.
Soon after I got there, George Roof arrived and gave me a quick tour of the work he's done (mostly patching up holes)--and commiserated with me about the huge job ahead .
"I don't know where you should start," he said...suggesting that I might begin with the garage--a dumpster load of garbage had been hauled away by Scott, my brother's handyman--but the drawers are overflowing with rusted tools, old cans of various poisons, bits and pieces of tools and who knows what else. The floor is covered with plastic bottles, old toys and all sorts of garbage that must have fallen out of the many garbage bags that had been sitting there for years.
I didn't do much more than haul in some of my stuff. I didn't want to arrive in New York with an over-flowing car--and after a short walk to the lake to remind myself that I was not ttotally insane (this is a really amazing spot), I drove into Brooklyn. Sarah had left that morning for a wedding in South Africa, and I was planning to use her apartment as a base until she returned on Labor Day. Jackie and Andre had seen their son off to his girlfriend's high school prom and were wandering around Brooklyn waiting for me. I picked them up after crossing the Brooklyn Bridge (despite the well-meaning advice of my gps navigator--getting completely lost in Jersey City and Hoboken--and sitting in huge traffic for almost an hour at the entrance to the Holland Tunnel--I was hours later than expected-).
Found a parking space right in front of Sarah's building---where we eventually whipped up a quick dinner of pasta ancd chick peas and kale. I travel across country with enough provisions to feed an army—the pasta and garbanzos were in my trunk, the kale salvaged from sarah's fridge—a fine feast and a good beginning to the east coast chapter (I hope).
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