The quiet is almost deafening
until the creak of a 250-year-old tulip wood floorboard breaks the silence.
Standing in the parlor admiring the final product of Christmas decorations that
fill the room; the green cedar rope frames each doorway like a hug from the
past, but this year it contrasts so vibrantly from the newly painted snow white
wide based trim. The glow from the fire on the aged red and orange masonry fills
the large room with beauty but no longer provides warmth. The gilded frame with
a portrait of the mother and two children hangs above the piano that wants to
be played; the tuneless ivory continues its wait. Red wool and linen ribbons
are strategically placed to accompany the gold turning of the candle stick. The
goose feather tree is fully decorated with handmade ornaments, tinsel glistens,
ropes of popcorn made by children hang like a dusting of snow, and the candles
wait to be lit by father on Christmas Eve after dinner. Peering into the dining
room the table is set for four and Christmas crackers are ready to snap when
opened at the table; the soup tureen, two serving dishes, and meat platter
remain empty on the sideboard. No one is here but me, no more family, no more
children, mothers, or fathers; its just me with the unknown memories that these
objects hold. The stories are the Ghosts of what used to be.
I adjust my apron, tighten the
buckle on my shoe, and walk down the hallway, through the annex past the walnut
cabinet made 150 years ago, and into the kitchen. The glowing embers of the
fire are almost ready for cooking, the smell of the menu fills the room, since
two chickens were stuffed, seasoned, tied carefully to the spit, and placed on
the hearth as soon as the flame engulfed the logs. I check my watch, double check
my produce and food supplies for the remaining of the cooking, and all is in
order. A highlight for the day will be a Cheshire Pork Pie from 1754: pastry
filled with layered pork, apples, white wine and topped with an elaborate lid
of carefully carved pastry to show the importance of the dish. It will be
cooked for hours in an 18th century cast iron Dutch oven
encapsulated by the burning coals produced from the fire. The Christmas pudding
has been made weeks in advance and the smell of the rum that has soaked the
pudding lingers. This will not be served to those who are delighted by its
appearance; it too will become another ghost in this house.
There is a rustling in the front
of the building; petticoats, short gowns, neckerchiefs, bonnets, jackets, top
hats, and voices make their way to me. The staff have arrived, and we are ready
to start the day. The flag is placed on the front of the house and as the
people walk through, we tell them stories of the day’s past. A whirlwind of
questions, conversation, astonishment, memories, nostalgia, and enjoyment are
exchanged before everyone leaves. The fire is stoked, the flag is retired,
dishes are washed, and the door is closed.
Only I and the ghosts, that are eternally compressed into the objects, remain
in the house; the baby shoes on the dresser, the christening and wedding gowns
in the archives, the photos of loved ones filed away by number, and the tiny
tea set were all once loved by someone. In the archive a child’s table and two
chairs are stored away along with two photographs of him opening the gift on
Christmas morning; the donor has since passed away, but that memory and single
joyful moment in time will forever be kept alive.
I can remember sitting in the
back of my Grandmother’s little red car, it was late but there was the
continuous flash of each streetlight that lit the silhouette of her short curly
hair. Then I saw it, the green Christmas tree decoration on the light pole, and
then another one, and another. That is how I knew Christmas would be soon. I
couldn’t have been more then three or four; I was so young that I didn’t
understand the concept of time, but I knew by the trees on the light poles that
it would come soon. I can also remember laying in the crib and her singing the
words to Silent Night, which played from a stuffed bear when you pressed it’s
heart. As each year passed there were fewer and fewer trees on the streetlamps.
Last year, I noticed there was one on every other pole; weary with age they
have likely fallen into disrepair, but the memory of that one drive with
Grandmother popped up and was resilient; this year, there are no trees on the
streetlamps and wherever they lie, so will the ghost of this memory.
Yes, I work with ghosts; these
are the many stories that will likely never be spoken again, memories forever
enshrined in the many artifacts that are catalogued in our collection. We can
tell you who they belonged to, when it was made, how it was used and why it is
important, but we can’t always tell you of the emotional experiences that are captured
within an object that can not speak. The dolls, archived on the second shelf
from the top, can not tell us about the joy when their little girl saw her for
the first time or about the moments she comforted her when she cried, but we
know they were loved enough to find their way to us. A pair of Lyle wedding
stockings are on display in new acquisitions, next to the dress, that was worn
in 1933. They were worn on a day filled with hopes and dreams of what would be
and finally placed in a drawer for safe keeping; as each day passed so did the
depression, a World War, new babies, and finally death. Everyone has an object, tradition, or a
memory that is cherished, and everyone will leave a legacy either good, bad, or
indifferent. I was once told that everyone dies twice, once physically, and
again when their name is last spoken, which is perhaps why I am a historian and
prefer public history. Museums are a community’s nucleus of cultural
preservation, to be shared with future generations, create conversation,
promote critical thinking and learning in a way that is enjoyable.
As we begin our process to close for the 2019
season, we would like to thank everyone who has supported our efforts to
maintain the Park House Museum. We look forward to the 2020 season, a new
decade, new experiences, new opportunities, and encourage you to take a step
back in time by visiting us. We are in
the initial stages of developing our 2021 immigration exhibit; throughout the coming
year we will be reaching out to community members to learn about their or their
family’s immigration experience. We are hoping to create a narrative for future
generations, collect the stories of our people and shed light on some of the ghosts
of our past.
“I would like to thank the Ontario Trillium Foundation for awarding the Park House Museum the Community Building Fund grant,” said Essex MPP Taras Natyshak. “This grant will enhance the preservation of many artifacts and provide a place to study our local heritage for many generations to come. The Park House Museum is an integral part of the Town of Amherstburg’s preservation of its past, present and future.” 
