Christian Educators' Journal

Promised land gone

by Sam Van Eman

Norman was 82 and sick. I had to see him. Ask him questions. He knew things about me — about the Van Emans — that I didn’t know. Perspective thickens history and I needed his perspective.

“Norman, what was it like being my family’s neighbor for the past sixty years?”

You have to be ready for answers to that sort of question. Before I tell you what he said, you ought to know how important such a question was to me. I’m the fifth Samuel. The first, born in 1816, moved to what became known as the Van Eman Homestead when he was only two. For the next 178 years, we owned that property. A few black and white photos - like the one here ­­- tell stories; a few relatives and county biographical records fill in blanks; my grandpa (Samuel III) provided a little, but not much, because I didn’t care enough then to ask him much while he was alive; and my dad (Samuel IV) kept all but silent. Whatever good past existed for him got smothered by his own troublesome present. That left Norman, who, for sixty years, had lived just across the lane.

Norman began our two-hour conversation by shaking his head. “Do you know what the Homestead was like in its heyday, Sammy? People made reservations to the restaurant your great-grandfather and great-grandmother ran there. The diners rode the old trolley to Van Eman Stop and came early just to walk the grounds in their suits and dresses before dinner. You never saw such an enchanting place and never ate better food.”

In a nineteen room house, I knew such dinners could take place. Chandeliers lit the air and heavy French doors led the way from one splendid space to the next. Fire places and stained glass windows and no less than a grand piano, parlor organ and cabinet-style Victrola stood by to set appropriate moods. And outside? As a boy who spent some years living at the Homestead, I only saw shadows of its former self, but how imagination pieced those shadows together: yard after yard lined with blue spruces and grape vines and ornamental fruit trees; stone paths graced by giant hydrangeas and lilies; vintage rose bushes climbing and cascading over the long trellis, providing shade and fragrance for numerous bench sitters near the garden pond. Five acres of enjoyment made early trolley rides well worth it.

But something happened between Samuel II and Samuel III, and by the 1960s (in case you’re doing the math, a James interrupted the sequence between Samuel I and Samuel II), the Homestead had begun its decline. Neglected roofs, as you perhaps know, behave like ruinous infections. They eat slowly, cursing almost imperceptibly in hidden places until the wounds surface to reveal death. The barn showed illness first. What once housed the horse and carriage sagged to the east, inch by inch into the ravine until you could walk up the western wall. The shed, or “stone building” as we called it, succumbed next. Its field stone walls did nothing to protect the now-rusted tools and useless garden supplies housed under decay. Only dad and grandpa were allowed inside and they made sure to get out quickly. The house endured longest but suffered visibly throughout. Warped windows stuck fast and chandeliers competed for attention with exposed ceiling lathe and plastic sheets hung high to catch water and plaster.

Then in 1996, my grandpa, Samuel III, died. Nine hundred and some-odd thousand dollars of unpaid taxes, a ten-thousand dollar unpaid gas bill, and other unbelievable illnesses, warranted a long-overdue transfer of the deed. Only 22 years shy of a second centennial milestone of ownership, the entire Van Eman estate — house, out buildings and nearly 100 acres of valuable real estate — got leveled.  

“Do you know what happened to the old Homestead, Sammy?” Norman shook his head again as he asked, this time staring with unbelief. “Your grandpa went to the horse track every day. Never gambled much at a time, only a couple dollars here and a couple dollars there. Your great-grandparents gave him what he wanted as a kid and he never appreciated any of it. He left his education behind, left his jobs behind, neglected his family and lost the restaurant as well as the family hardware business, and he lived off of his inheritance until it was gone. Now it’s all gone.”          

Some days I hate what Norman had to say. I hate going through the old boxes and seeing faded liens stuffed in forgotten envelopes. I hate that so much was squandered and that I have to start over. I don’t think I can, really. Maybe I simply don’t know how to start over. I’m thirty-six and I live with my wife and two daughters in a rental three hours from the middle-class development that now stands atop the Homestead like a crass headstone on a grave where not a resident knows or cares about the deceased. At this pace, it’s unlikely I’ll ever have an “estate.” That doesn’t mean I’m not restless for another promised land.

It’s ironic that before I knew the extent of my family’s history, I assumed we were a transient clan, not homeowners or property dwellers. See, I’ve moved 18 times in my life. That averages once every two years since birth. Three of those times were at the Homestead, a place with generations of stability and memories and rooted stories. And yet I thought we were transients.

Beneath the noise of address changes, however, settling sounds good to me. Even on our landlord’s .17 acre sliver, I tend to my small plot of annuals and perennials like a hen with chicks. Suits and dresses don’t travel here, but visitors like what we’ve done to the place and often relish a few moments of enjoyment in the back yard.

I’m glad for our little rental and my small sanctuary of blooms. I’m very glad to be debt-free. In a somewhat desperate attempt to be optimistic, I sometimes say that I’m nine hundred and some-odd thousand dollars ahead. Most of all, I’m glad that God redeems. Redemption may not end up resembling the Homestead and I may not end up being a hero in our family history, but God, nonetheless, redeems. And I can settle on that.

your comments

deb
Jul 05 2009
04:52 PM

interesting how our past shapes us, in ways that can unravel when we least imagine.

what seems like a debt gives gifts you give and will give ,yet unknown.

this was so well written

garynoshow
Jul 05 2009
06:59 PM

BOOOOOOORING

SamVanEman
Jul 06 2009
07:49 PM

Deb, I’m reading The Gift by Lewis Hyde currently. Your comment about debt giving gifts is fitting.

Garynoshow, your comment is a joke? I don’t usually take write-offs seriously, and I won’t begin now. I have called a fair share of produced entertainment, “boring,” but it is not an adjective that fits a person’s story, if for no other reason than a person’s story is not produced. It’s like calling a tree “boring.” Now, if you have feedback for my writing, then please elaborate. It may help me to improve.

haikuproject
Jul 07 2009
04:57 PM

See, this has all been such a misunderstanding. Garynoshow was providing us an immersive sound experience of the homestead during its prime:

The smell of fresh grass.
The soft scratch of pressed woolen pants upon the front of the legs as you stroll past the barn, waiting to be called to dinner.
Then, in not quite the same moment we are met by two sounds:
MOOOOOOOOO – Ring!

(alas, poor garynoshow cannot spell, but it would be rude to blame him for that.)

We had not seen the cow, nor had we expected a bell to summon us to dinner this soon, but now our stomachs are grumbling as we take one last deep breath before heading in.

We notice the sunshine caught on the needles of the spruce trees and hear laughing from across the lawn, and that’s when we realize that we had forgotten for an afternoon all those things which had so preoccupied our thoughts from this week.

Garynoshow, thank you for our imaginative excursion & keep up the phonics.
And SamVanEman, keep up your garden, if I were there I’m sure I would savor a moment of peace and appreciation of life. And I would wear my suit.

pennedwithoutink
Jul 16 2009
04:51 PM

I really enjoyed your story – and can appreciate the emotion that colors it. Even though Norman’s remembrances revealed a darker shade than you may have anticipated, it’s good you asked-for both your sakes.

I love your ending – about redemption and the determination to nurture contentment in the “sanctuary” where God has placed you and your family at this time.

Thanks, too, for your encouragement on “Dreams for Sale.”

SamVanEman
Aug 06 2009
03:22 PM

haikuproject and pennedwithoutink,

Thanks for the creative and caring comments.

SamVanEman
Aug 06 2009
03:30 PM

Or maybe more superlatively I should say, udderly creative comment.

llbarkat
Aug 06 2009
06:05 PM

This phrase jumped out at me…

“vintage rose bushes climbing and cascading”

Maybe for its poetry. Maybe because I just wrote a piece with brass roses in it. Maybe just for the beauty of it and the poignance of roses…

aren’t they, after all, the quintessential image to sum up your story? It is a story of roses… and Sam’s yes, but really of roses.

Made me sad in its way.

SamVanEman
Aug 07 2009
12:43 PM

Loved the poem, LL.

SandraHeskaKing
Jan 20 2012
08:32 PM

I looked and looked for the line that stood out to me, the one about roots. But never found it. Because I read roofs as roots.

“Neglected roofs, as you perhaps know, behave like ruinous infections.”

And maybe roots fits here, too.

This made me sad to see a rich history crumble. It’s that history that makes us who we are. It’s those roots that help us stand. I’m glad that you dug a little deeper and got some answers.

I can’t help but think, though, that God knew you before you were born, and that you are right where He would have you be at this moment in time.

Loved this piece.

mkreider
Jan 21 2012
08:58 PM

Is there any lasting wealth, really, beyond a sliver and a plot?

Such a memorable post.

mkreider
Jan 22 2012
03:06 AM

Clarification: beyond a sliver and a plot — “of annuals and perennials”.

Because even a pot of dirt can be rich.

(I keep thinking about this post. It’s rich, too.)