The house on Clermont Street was a dated 1910 Victorian home, once belonging to Ambrose Merriweather. I, Steven Merriweather, grew up in this house along with my younger sister Carrie. I think a robust word for my grandfather is “admiration.’ I am unable to say why I feel that way about a silly old word, when that silly word, should be changed to ‘love.’ That fits my grandfather so much better.

“This place makes me happy,” I spoke up with a radiant smile, and yet with sadness behind it.  It was either the flashback to the Victorian era or the simple love for Grandfather Merriweather. My grandmother, (Ruth Merriweather) now deceased, was the grand dame of the residence during the time Carrie and I, along with our parents, lived with them in the Victorian house that everybody knew of as, ‘Fairview Manor.’

******

 “What is so special about this place that makes you happy?” asked my mother, who no doubt was aware of the answer.

Presently, my folks owned a town house clear across town. They had no interest in the Victorian home, nor did my sister Carrie. Grandpa put my name on the deed and now, Fairview Manor, would someday belong to me.

Grandma Ruth was oh, so fussy, that even as a little boy, I thought she was loco. Of course, one didn’t dare to say that aloud. She was kind and generous, but she had rules. Good grief, rules, rules, rules, for everything.

Grandmother Ruth love plants, so naturally she maintained a lovely garden that was off limits to the children. God forbid, the earth would shake if she discovered a broken delphinium. Inside, she was even worse with houseplants.

I was six year old. Grandpa would read children stories to me on the sprawling wrap around front porch. The porch was laden with potted plants of all sorts including a humongous wax begonia growing in an oblong wicker basket, painted white.  The begonia (with red blossoms) grew well and cascaded over the front of the basket.

Carrie and I were not allowed to touch any of the plants and Grandmother Ruth had a very good reason why…...”If you touch them, they will die.” That was rule number nine, maybe eight, there were rules for everything with identifying numbers.

Grandfather Merriweather would say “hooey” and whack them with his cane when grandmother wasn’t looking. Being six years old, I believed everything, so I avoided the plants as if they were monsters in the soil. It was a while before I learned what “hooey” really meant.

One day, Grandpa was reading me a story about “Blackie the Cat,” when grandmother spotted some begonia blossoms on the floor of the porch. I believe they died from natural causes and dropped to the floor. I surely didn’t get near them. In truth, I hated the red begonia in the wicker basket. I thought of it as a voodoo plant.

On the other hand, it may have been helped with a whack from grandpa’s cane. However, I saw nothing and said nothing.

I believe that leaves and blossoms, intertwined within her brain. She could never walk past without scanning them. Sometimes my mom would say she loved plants like family. That sounded kinda scary.

Another plant forbidden to touch was a huge Boston fern growing near the living room window with long growth cascading towards the floor.

“Don’t touch the fern. Wherever you touch it on the ends, it will die.” I hesitate saying how many times we heard that.

The fern would get brown and messy looking, as they often do, so grandmother would take clippers and clean off the brown foliage. She touched it many times, but it never died. In fact, it looked much better. So much for rule number nine.

That is when I learned the real meaning of “hooey.”  “It was nonsense over a stupid plant.” However, I knew enough to keep my mouth shut. It was tough to outsmart Grandma Ruth, so I never tried. Besides, you would be treading in dangerous waters calling her Boston fern, “stupid.”

By the time, I was in second grade, my knowledge of right and wrong grew rapidly.  I loved grandfather, we were friends and grandpa treated me like a little man.

My grandmother was an amazing woman, but lost inside her head with blossoms and foliage. Once I understood that, I pretended that the plants were not there.  Resentment is rather strong for a little boy to feel, however, it is far better than some words I heard my father use.

Time passed. I am twenty-six years old now.  Carrie is twenty-three and married. Carrie is three years younger, but she matured quickly and much of those years (near, and yet so far away) are ancient history, as far as I am concerned.

Little did anyone suspect that in another year, our grandfather would also be gone, and Fairview Manor now belonged to me. 

My grandparents were gone. Mom and dad had a townhouse, Carrie and husband Jack, moved out of state and I had the Victorian house that nobody wanted. Sometimes you have to stop and look around to realize that you are somewhere.

Fairview Manor had its flaws but never lost its charm and elegance. Some things are better when they are not perfect.

I attended NYU law school intending to be a lawyer. The more I learned about the judicial system, the more I discovered how phony lawyers could twist the law to win cases. Everything was about winning. I knew that was the object of being a lawyer, but soon learned this game was not for me.

I loved horticulture. Can you beat that? Growing up I was frightened to touch plants, and now I wanted to work with them.

I left NYU and secured a temporary position at the New York Botanical Gardens in the Bronx. I asked hundreds of questions and got thousands of answers. That is an exaggeration, but I am so wrapped up in horticulture.  Make no mistake about it; I was soon out of New York City and back at Fairview Manor.

“What do you intend to do with Fairview Manor? My mother asked me.

“I don’t intend to do anything, but live here.”

“It’s too big for you. Suppose you sell it and come stay with us at the town house. We have a lovely guest room with a view. You would like that Steven, I know you would.”

“Why don’t you sell the town house and come back to Fairview Manor?”

“You have to be kidding,” said mother.

“It’s close to work and I love the place. I would never sell it. The property belongs in the family,” I reminded her being firm but polite.

The discussion ended quickly when I said, “I am old enough to know what I like and what I don’t like.”

The house was wonderful with magical furnishings from days gone by. I did a fair amount of remodeling and removed walls giving the downstairs a fresh up to date look.

The contractor was careful not to damage the ambiance of the Victorian era with the remodeling.  The fireplaces (all four of them) cleaned and period mantels rebuilt with a fresh coat of white paint. The worn carpet removed downstairs replaced with polished wood floors and country tile. The kitchen and baths remodeled with color eliminating decades of black and white walls and tile floors. Fairview Manor was stunning.

That was about it. Money was becoming scarce and there was a ton of work still needed done outside. I had a treasure chest of plants from Grandmother Ruth’s garden. I removed everything, redesigned the shape and started over.

“You have such a big job, you are doing,” said a man, speaking to me with an accent that sounded French.

“Oh, I didn’t see you behind me, you scared the crap out of me,” I explained being startled.

“What is this word, “crap?” He asked.

“It’s…..never mind!” I was not about to go down that road with a stranger. 

What is your accent? You sound, French.” I asked.

“Yes – I am French, You can tell? I thought my English was good.”

“Oh, it is good, very good’ and great accent. Are you looking for somebody?”

“No, I am looking at the attractive gardens along the street. Your property is magnifique.”

“Merci beaucoup, I am redesigning a very old garden.”

“You certainly have a collection of unusual plants.”

“This was my grandmother’s garden and she kept it going over the years dividing plants, relocating new sprouts and replacing things as they came to the end of their growing life. The peonies are fifty years old and still bloom every spring.”

« Tout est si beau y compris la maison.»

(Everything is so beautiful here including the house) -  He babbled in French.

Living in Plattsburgh, Canadiens from Québec and Montréal were frequent visitors to New York State. Folks travelled back and forth across the northern border needing ID only.

I understood a fair amount of conversational French. We chatted a bit longer (half English and half French). Then, he winked at me, and walked away down the street.

Determined to keep, the name Ambrose Merriweather associated with Fairview Manor - I do what I do, because I am, who I am.

The French gentleman was intetesting, however, at long last, I was alone in solitude, remembering days gone by with a positive outlook about the days ahead.

******

The End