Step across the threshold into Haskell House: a world apart, that is no more.
The rooms are fragrant with their near-four hundred years. Touch worn iron thumb latches. Eat from tables set with pewter that glows from rare chandeliers and other early table candle lights.
Wide and thick flooring boards without a hint of squeak. And warmth from five ancient hearths.
From winder stairs inside the front door—alive with nails that rivet the double sided planking—an inner door leads to the sleeping chambers above; another door to an undisturbed, original stone stair to the cellar, still unpaved.
In still and quiet times, listen some spirit-echos of those early voices may still be there for you to breathe and better understand that world.
Be guest, and for a time, a resident. Become one within that continuum of those who have been here before.
Haskell House is filled with long-gone memories.
Sit in the stillness and listen.
Words by e. w. oestreich
Published author of 8 collections of personal images presented in poetry and prose.