STOLEN

 

A neighbor tried to steal our property. My father's father bequeath his children quite a lot.  A small track of high flat land was the very proud physical part of the legacy.  For almost a century there had been a small three bedroom house on the property, Our house, a clapboard house, was like so many on the Eastern Shore.  Clapboard houses, with there long horizonal wood boards, thick edge laid over thin, were classic throughout the Chesapeake.  They could be as modest as the one we lived in, but it was not unusual to find them rather elaborate.  I remember how many doors and windows even modest Clapboards houses had.  Regardless of individual size, these houses always seemed to maximize spaciousness; their ultimate grandeur determined by the owner's wallet, and the willingness of the local bank, or the local wealthy guy, to loan money for construction. 

 Many of the black families on Deal Island, Somerset County, eventual owned the homes they live in, often through, 'I'll lend you money to build, then you can work (almost always on the water) to pay me back' arrangements.    

These were beautiful places, livable, airy, watertight.  Clapboards yes, but you could bet the only limit to a home's distinctiveness was the imagination of the lady of the house.  It might take her three or four years to finally get it - that fancy velvet covered mahogany living room set, or the piano or organ that graced the Sun parlor - but 'get it' she would.

 We were poor; yet, I was amaze how richly we lived. 

 Now, here comes this guy who thinks he's going to steal our little piece on the Bay. The clapboard house isn't there anymore; but out commitment to the Bay is generationally strong.  Saving our small piece, where daddy and his dad planted then grew roots, is so very Eastern Shore, so Chesapeake Bay.  Mostly small but rich ways to live, held together like clapboards, nailed tight.    

 After all these years none of the Bay's values have come apart.  Nothing, either, will be stolen. Bring your Bible.