My Own Dutch House
(This article was originally published October 1, 2022, in the Southern Spice section of Times-Georgian.)
“Do houses ever die of grief?”/”Only the decent ones.” — Ann Patchett, The Dutch House
Photo/Unsplash
An unexpected pleasure of my lengthy drive to work materializes through the narrative voices of Audible, filling my commutes with gifts of stories and painting pictures as vivid as the pastel patchwork of a misty sunrise that greets me each morning as I cross the Dog River. One such exquisite gift is Ann Patchett’s 2019 novel The Dutch House. Narrated by Tom Hanks, an undeserved treat in and of itself, the story centers on Maeve and Danny Conroy, a brother and sister duo, with an intricately woven tapestry of a past that binds them together in a way few can understand. Abandoned by their mother, kicked out of their magnificent home by their evil stepmother, the two find themselves embarking on a life forged of the trials and tribulations found primarily in dark fairy tales.
Perhaps as important as any character in the story is the “Dutch House” itself, an architectural marvel of a structure that comes to signify wealth, tradition, family, nostalgia, and loss, and seems to enthrall and repulse characters in turn throughout the novel. Paintings of long-departed ancestors hanging in living rooms with faces as familiar as siblings, beloved pieces of furniture that anchor memories of rooms and shared family moments, the house functions as a tribute to a shared, complicated history of its present occupants and past inhabitants, and the emotion it evokes resonates with readers long after the last page is turned.
I suspect we all have a version of “the Dutch House” that we recall with unabashed fondness, a place we associate deep down in our heart of hearts with aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins. A place where memorable meals were prepared and served and games were won and lost, these events having become the backbone of family lore. A place that is more a player or character in our collective consciousness than an object.
A three-story white house with a wrap-around front porch and expansive green carpet of a front yard punctuated by an imposing Weeping Willow at its northern edge, located in the small northern West Virginia town of Shinnston, has long performed as one of the central characters in the story of my father’s family. Long before it became Shinnston, the town was known as “Shinn’s Run,” a place where my family participated in horse thievery, among other notorious deeds. Much later, my great-grandfather, having apparently redeemed the family name, was elected mayor. The town even opened a museum dedicated to the Bice family history.
Nestled in a narrow alleyway amongst twisty-turny streets, the Ferguson Street house has long captured my imagination. When I was small, I reveled in discovering its secrets: a dark basement with tapered stairs lined with jars of canned goods, culminating in an honest-to-God black cauldron used for apple butter and sauce; a seldom-used parlor with two vintage organs, imposing as dark sentinels in their watchfulness over the space; a converted attic where my great-uncle slept, a place I was granted access to only once in my life.
No family gathering was ever complete without mention of the Shinnston house, its occupants and its stories. After most of my grandmother’s generation had moved out, only my two great-aunts and my great-uncle remained. My great-aunts had an alarming habit of falling asleep at the kitchen table, heads down on top of an opened newspaper. They’d sleep there until the sun rose. I can still remember finding them there the next morning, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, the overwhelming aroma of Eight O’Clock coffee percolating on the stove as I descended the wide staircase.
Memories of Christmas sledding, generations of beloved hunting dogs and Dachshunds, and formidable pieces of furniture anchor my childhood and fill me with a sentimental longing. As an adult looking back, the nostalgia and loss associated with the house often manifests itself as a cathartic grief for me. That house. That house was something -- a virtual member of our family, an entity that can move me to tears. My thanks to those who came before for leaving me such a gift.
The house still exists, though no one in my family owns it. To this day, I still can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that no member of the Burnett-Bice family possesses it. My mom and dad knocked on the door one time, years ago, and after explaining their connection, asked to see it.
Its alteration nearly bowled them over with sadness.
Unknown artist’s rendition of 84 Ferguson St, Shinnston, WV, year unknown
No thank you. I’ll let it remain untouched, steeped in my rich childhood reminisces, even if the picture I’ve painted in my mind glosses over faults and shortcomings.
Ann Patchett’s book provided me with more than a pleasant diversion on my way to work; it’s a vehicle that has allowed me to retain a little bit more of the house. The circle of people who hold my “Dutch House” dear is growing increasingly smaller - only my uncles, my cousins, my mom, and I are left, but 84 Ferguson St. has left an indelible impression on us all.
