Living in New England is like living through the history of America. When wandering around the region, it often feels as if you are flipping through the pages of a history book.
Turning onto Main Street from a small road where my home lies, within two minutes you encounter an old house. A book-size plate displayed next to the door reads “The William Wickham House (1685)”. Yes, a vintage house more than 300 years old in my very neighborhood, even older than the United States.
Are you curious about the origin of this historical house? Then let us search through the town history book. It turns out that businessman William Wickham built this house in the so-called “salt-box” style in 1685. “Salt-box” was popular in the early colonial period in New England; like the boxes once used to store salt, this design style actually originated in England. Back in the days of Queen Anne’s reign, the “salt-box” style prevailed in the “old” England. The roof of the “box” resembles the strokes of the Chinese character . The left stroke is shorter and higher, hence this side can house two stories, while the longer right stroke descends all the way down to just above one-man height, only tall enough for a single-story building. Folklore holds that the roof is “stroked” to the left and right this way for tax exemption purposes. According to Queen Anne’s taxation, folks got to pay greater tax for a two-story building. If the roof is “stroked” down to one-story height, for the same piece of land, higher tax can be avoided. Well, while the ruling power can impose their measure, the ruled grassroots can always figure out their own countermeasure. Folks just have that wisdom or slyness, at all times and across all races.
In 1716, William Wickham’s son John got married. They raised and expanded the roof under the longer “stroke”, completing a symmetrical “Holland” roof. This architecture style was also widely adopted among England immigrants colonizing America in the early days. If you visit Holland nowadays, these symmetrical gambrel roofs, like the one under which Little Red Riding Hood once dwelled, can still be seen everywhere, be it in the quiet, serene and remote Giethoorn, or in the no longer flourishing but still magnificent Amsterdam.
The married John apparently still lived together with his parents under one “Holland” roof. This is completely opposite of the current social norm, where kids are expected to be independent after reaching 18. It seems like several generations sharing one household was a common practice back in those days, just like what Ba Jin depicted in his novel “The Family”. Independence and freedom, both are luxuries to which we were not entitled until society had progressed to a certain advanced level.
When driving through small towns in New England, especially when passing by those grand farmlands, you can spot “saltboxes” and “Holland” roofs scattered around. The exterior walls of these old boxes are usually covered with slender wooden sidings. New England is rich in forests, so there are inexhaustible pines to be used for sidings.
Some of the exterior walls of these old boxes are freshly restored, just like this William Wickham House. More than 300 years have passed, endless wars fought, innumerable hurricanes and snowstorms have come and gone, yet this house remains intact. It still provides shelter for a family, a common family, so common that it could just be my son’s classmate jumping in and out of the doorstep laid by Wickham for his little John.
Some residents dwelling in these old houses intentionally preserve the historical appearance of their exterior walls. Such owners must feel nostalgic about the past. They don’t care much about the housing market. If one is persistent about her own aesthetic standard, and does not follow the trend of popularity, it could result in a financial disadvantage from an investment viewpoint. However, after years of erosion of the severe weather in New England, the primary color of the slender pine sidings transforms into a golden black, displaying a pacified solemness in the sunset. If such beauty can be redeemed, even in the eye of one beholder, in the heart of one soul, the financial loss has already turned into a spiritual gain. What deal can be better than that which brings one's soul satisfaction?
When I settled down near these “saltboxes” and “Holland roofs” many years ago, my immense joy was like a high tide. Is it really true that I am now living in the scenes that depicted in those movies, novels and paintings? Is it really true that I am now living in a faraway land that I have been yearning for in my childhood dreams? Have the lost souls from “The Ice Storm” finally struggled through the tumultuous social changes, escaped from the emotional black hole at their hearts, and embarked on the “Revolutionary Road”? Andrew Wyeth, how much longer do you want your frail heroine to crawl across the lonely field in “Christina’s World”? Do we have to live a simple life by “Walden Pond” like Thoreau and then come to realize that “If a person lives sincerely, then he must be living in a remote place”?
I have now lived in New England for many years, in a small town scattered with traces of history. I am used to weaving these traces into my everyday life. During weekends, I may take a ride on the oldest continuously running ferry in the United States, watching the forever Connecticut River run through in the chug of the motor. In quiet afternoons, I may go to visit my “saltboxes” in the nearby farms, observing how sunset melts the “Holland roofs” into golden oldies.
A three hundred year-old past is so well preserved here. It feels like the past is within the reach of my fingertips. This heritage brings a sense of security to me, who lives in the present turmoil. I hear a voice whispering from this past: take your time to enjoy the simple things in life, there is no need to be anxious for anything. Although I did not inherit this past from my own ancestors, does it really matter? World cultural heritage belongs to all mankind, I can embrace it and enjoy it, just like the English China dinnerware on my dining table.
I am living in a history carefully preserved by another kind of people, filled with all sorts of virtues and sins, and carrying all sorts of exotic styles passed down to me from my ancestors. I don’t have any dreams that I must fulfil, I only wish to live simply, in this remote land far away from my birthplace. Another three hundred years later, my presence will become part of the small-town history, the part that is forgotten.
