House tour of duty

Will people pay to visit the Mountain Lair?

by Sally Cragin

Illustration by Lennie Peterson

Hollis the Mountain Man is irked. His great-aunt Winnie (named for Winnipesaukee, though she can't swim) has volunteered the Mountain Lair to be the showpiece of the Tritown Tour of Homes, and he only finds out when a gaggle of women from All Faiths, the beneficiary of the tour, shows up with bolts of colonial blue cloth to make curtains for the windows.

He protests vociferously to Delia Ellis Bell the Partial Yankee (there was a questionable great-great-grandmother) at Happy's Coffee & Qwik-Stop (30 kinds of doughnuts, 20 kinds of lottery tickets, one kind of coffee).

"Damned bright and early, too," he grumbles. "Some of them had those gahd-awful silk flowers in rush-bottomed planters, and they wanted to know if I had a folding screen to hide the kitchen."

"Well," says Delia philosophically. "It is Winnie's house -- what are you paying, $60 a month rent? That's like Baltic Avenue in Monopoly.

"Besides, she's been mentioning the house tour to you for months," Delia shrugs. "And it's not like you've been real active in our 17-bean supper fundraiser."

Hollis glowers into his Syracuse mug of Happy's coffee. Black and oily, it fails to console him. "I know," he mutters. "I forgot. I've got so much to remember. Now that Lorencz the Hermit had his meltdown, and they pried him off the basement floor with a fistful of Q-tips."

"I heard," says Delia. "I'm glad he's back in the woods. Just keep him out of range of the house-tour ladies."

Hollis's face creases with demonic anticipation. "No," he says. "Perhaps Lorencz the Hermit should be on the house tour."

Outside the Qwik-Stop, a set of lights flashes. Jean-Pierre Leblanc (formerly Whitey, until a hockey concussion amplified the Francophone aspects of his personality) is waiting, and Delia waves to him. "Hollis," she says, squeezing out of the booth. "I'd love to help, but I don't know what you want me to do. Gotta run, Jean-Pierre and I are going to an auction."

"That's the second one this week!" Hollis declares.

Delia gives him a frazzled look. "It is?" she says, and then winks. "Well, if I come across some really attractive and appropriate silk flowers, I'll put in a bid for ya."

Hollis throws a wadded-up napkin, but it bounces off her knapsack as she departs.

IN TRITOWN, and nearby Purlieus, the "house tour" has become all the rage for groups seeking to raise funds for worthy (or otherwise) causes. In Hollis's opinion, the whole point is to charge big bucks to folks who get an eyeful of other people's stuff. The house tour usually involves a number of local merchants: florists donate arrangements, caterers arrange "high tea," and decorators unreel miles of chintz, gingham, and floral bunting in people's living rooms.

The victims, willing or otherwise, are those with either historic homes or gigantic suburban mansionettes, especially those with an indoor jacuzzi, minstrel's alcove, or Japanese rock garden. Poor Hollis, living in the oldest house in Tritown, is a sitting duck for the tour ladies. Of course calling the Mountain Lair a "house," is being kind. Many generations back, the first Mountain Men decided the hilly portion of Tritown was Elysium. Why farm when you have trout hopping out of the brook, and turkey to shoot? The woods vibrated with available game, and, in the early 19th century, a Mountain Family descendent decided to dam the stream and create Picture Pond. (The millhouse, despite the grand wooden paddle wheel, served only to conceal the still that provided the quieter portion of the Mountain Family's income.)

The original structure was a log cabin, with various extensions added through the years. In New England, classic and archetypal domestic architecture consists of "big house, little house, back house, barn." The Mountain domicile offers a variation on the theme: "cabin, outhouse, shack, other shack, barn." (As one part of the building collapsed, subsequent generations kept building in the other direction.) Hollis's great-uncle Wilton (who perished in a Bicentennial reenactment) was the first generation to use the cabin for part of the year (for fishing), yet he came closest to desecrating the historic building by threatening to sheath it in vinyl siding. (Interestingly enough, his problem of getting a variance mysteriously disappeared after he decided not to go with the siding.)

Hollis hasn't done much to the interior, which is dark, dank, and cozy. The main aroma is wood smoke (and occasionally oregano, when Hollis orders a pizza). Some waggish Mountain ancestor etched "1850 -- survived Indian raid" on the mantelpiece; but since King Phillip's War happened two centuries earlier, this artifact is presumed to be a hoax. The accouterments range from the quaintly antique -- a flatiron he uses as a door stop, the black Bakelite phone with rotary dial that cuts your fingers unless you have toughened-up Mountain Man digits -- to the slightly modern -- a crocheted afghan in 1970s ochre and avocado yarn. True, there are an enamel gas stove, circa 1940, and a real icebox (where Hollis keeps some of his tools), but no single historical period dominates.

Thus the ladies bearing bolts of colonial blue to make ruffled curtains with lacy tiebacks. "And if they think they're going to gussy my home into some Yankee-magazine fantasy," Hollis thinks grimly. "They've got another think coming."

OF COURSE, HOLLIS ENDS UP folding like a hand of canasta with no face cards, and Lorencz the Hermit is off on a mushroom hunt and is no help. For two days, the ladies from All Faiths swarm over the Mountain Lair, and when they finish, you could shoot a sequel to Little House on the Prairie in there, if you didn't mind casting the cats, Trick and Treat (who'd been vigorously brushed), as the Ingalls sisters. At least that's what Hollis tells Delia sheepishly -- the day after the tour.

"I can see through the windows!" he marvels. "They even changed the oilcloth on the table. And somebody brought cinnamon rolls, so that my house smelled like Happy's in the morning." Other improvements to the Mountain Lair include perky, ruffled curtains, and a good scouring to the hard parts of the cabin, and a buffing of the wooden ones.

Delia gives her oldest friend a skeptical look. "So, you basically got the kind of house-cleaning I used to charge fifty bucks for?"

Hollis looks astonished, then delighted. "You know," he says, "the best part was that everyone wanted to hear the stories that go with parts of the cabin: how my great- (to the 10th power) grandfather decided to settle here, because fishing was more enjoyable than going to church, and how a Mountain Man has lived here every generation since."

Delia nods and adds more cream to her coffee. "So, basically," she begins. "You caved on the tour to get your house cleaned and the opportunity to lecture strangers about your goofy family."

Hollis smirks. "Exactly," he says. "Plus, this means I'm definitely off the hook to do anything for the 17-bean supper."

Delia takes a sip of her coffee. Hollis is so cute when he's deluded, she thinks, and decides to let him have another doughnut before telling him she needs help carrying the 50-gallon beanpot to the kitchen at All Faiths. Plenty of time for him to pitch in on the bean-up.

IF YOU'RE LIVING near a swamp or pond and hear a strange yowl in the middle of the night that isn't quite a dog's yelp -- but isn't exactly human's -- you may have a fisher-cat roaming about. These large, cat-like members of the weasel family are nocturnal and dine on rabbits (also, the occasional housecat). They prefer hunting at dusk, or after, and are fairly rare, but the number of sightings in north Central Massachusetts is on the upsurge. . . . And speaking of real cats, 'tis the season of yard sales, and Lunenburg's Pat Brody Shelter for Cats is planning their traditional Memorial Day extravaganza. If you have items you'd like to donate (furniture, clothing, kitchenware, and books are welcome), call (978) 582-6116. (The shelter can arrange to pick up larger items.) Of course, if you're in need of a real cat, the shelter has a variety to choose from. All the animals are spay/neutered and have received shots.

Sally Cragin is conveniently absent or silent anytime the subject of "house tours" comes up in the community groups in which she participates.

---

The Tales From Tritown archive

---