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Searching... R.H. Stafford Library (Woodbury) | 974.4 COL | Searching... Unknown |
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Summary
Summary
In this intimate and poignant history of a sprawling century-old summer house on Cape Cod, George Howe Colt reveals not just one family's fascinating story but a vanishing way of life. Faced with the sale of the treasured house where he had spent forty-two summers, Colt returned for one last August with his wife and young children.The Big House,the author's loving tribute to his one-of-a-kind family home, interweaves glimpses of that elegiac final visit with memories of earlier summers spent at the house and of the equally idiosyncratic people who lived there over the course of five generations.Built by Colt's great-grandfather one hundred years ago on a deserted Cape Cod peninsula, the house is a local landmark (neighboring children know it as the Ghost House): a four-story, eleven-bedroom jumble of gables, bays, sloped roofs, and dormers. The emotional home of the Colt family, the Big House has watched over five weddings, four divorces, and three deaths, along with countless anniversaries, birthday parties, nervous breakdowns, and love affairs. Beaten by wind and rain, insulated by seaweed, it is both romantic and run-down, a symbol of the faded glory of the Boston Brahmin aristocracy.With a mixture of amusement and affection, Colt traces the rise and fall of this tragicomic social class while memorably capturing the essence of summer's ephemeral pleasures: sailing, tennis, fishing, rainy-day reading. Time seems to stand still in a summer house, and for the Colts the Big House always seemed an unchanging place in a changing world. But summer draws to a close, and the family must eventually say good-bye.Elegant and evocative,The Big Houseis both magical and sad, a gift to anyone who holds cherished memories of summer.
Author Notes
George Howe Colt is a former staff writer at Life magazine whose articles have been published in The New York Times, Civilization, and Mother Jones, among other publications. He lives with his family in rural western Massachusetts
Reviews (3)
Publisher's Weekly Review
The epicenter of the Colt family is the Big House, built in 1903 on Wings Neck, a deserted strip of Cape Cod. It's not only an architectural gem but a device to chronicle family, local history and the culture of Boston Brahmins-and it accomplishes that task with charm, style and solid research. For 42 summers, Colt traveled from winter homes across the U.S. to partake in this magical place. It's where he learned to swim and play tennis, and where he kissed his first girl. Indeed, the Big House has seen five weddings, four divorces, parties, anniversaries and love affairs. The Colts, a once venerable tribe, had lost their money-"it is not wealth so much as former wealth that defines Old Money families"-but were determined to keep their ancestral home. Time may have marched on, but the Big House refused to cooperate: "Everything in this house breathes of the past." Gilbert & Sullivan sheet music, rotary telephones and ancient globes grace its interiors. Yet all is not perfect in this palace by the sea. Colt, like playwright A.J. Gurney, is adept at exposing the dark underbelly of WASP restraint, recording the mental illness, alcoholism and despair that have plagued his family. His one comfort? The Big House. This love letter to the past is a quiet delight. Agent, Amanda Urban. (June 3) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
There are those who use the word summer more as a verb than a noun; who suspend their daily urban or suburban lives to journey to another place so as to immerse themselves in its essential "otherness." Colt summered at the Big House, a rambling, 11-room, multibayed, -gabled and -dormered Cape Cod mansion built by his great-grandfather, inventor Ned Atkinson. For a century it has stood sentry on a bluff overlooking Buzzard's Bay, attracting various Colts and Atkinsons as a spot where they can retreat and recharge, where they return to relive a past era's simpler times. Now a financial burden, the Big House is up for sale, and Colt makes a final pilgrimage to pay homage to an idyllic retreat whose splendor and purpose may be vanishing but whose significance is eternal. In a touching, deeply felt memoir, reminiscent of Willie Morris' North toward Home (1967), Colt goes beyond his own wistful longing, rendering keen observations of a lifestyle borne of privilege, perpetuated by tradition, and celebrated through elegance. Carol Haggas
Library Journal Review
Colt (The Enigma of Suicide) here offers a wonderfully tender yet frank history of his Boston Brahmin family and the 19-room Cape Cod summer house that brought them together-and in some cases, divided them-for five generations. With its lack of heating, faulty wiring, inadequate plumbing, and walls inhabited by squirrels and mice, the Big House, as it is known, is too costly to maintain. After spending 42 summers there, Colt brings his wife and children for a final stay before the house is sold. In a place where everything "breathes of the past," Colt reminisces over summers spent swimming in the bay, fishing with his aunt, and playing billiards in the evenings with his grandfather. Along the way, he also recounts the darker side of his past, including his family's battles with mental illness, alcoholism, cancer, and one another. Well researched and written with a meditative grace, Colt's book is obviously a labor of love. The only complaint is that, like a warm, breezy summer on the Cape, it ends far too quickly. Public and academic libraries will want this.-William D. Walsh, Georgia State Univ. Lib., Atlanta (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Prologue WINTER The doors that are always open have been closed and locked. The windows are shut tight. The shades are drawn. No water runs from the faucets. The toaster -- which in the best of times works only if its handle is pinned under the weight of a second, even less functional toaster -- is unplugged. The kitchen cupboards are empty except for a stack of napkins, a box of sugar cubes, and eight cans of beer. The porch furniture -- six white plastic chairs, two green wooden tables -- has been stacked in the dining room. The croquet set, the badminton equipment, the tennis net, and the flag are behind closet doors. The dinghy is turtled on sawhorses in the barn, the oars angled against the wall. The roasted-salt scent of August has given way to the stale smell of mothballs, ashes, mildew. Here and there are traces of last summer: a striped beach towel tossed on the washing machine, a half-empty shampoo bottle wedged in the wooden slats of the outdoor shower, a fishing lure on the living room mantel, a half-burned log in the fireplace, a sprinkling of sand behind the kitchen door. Dead hornets litter the windowsills. A drowned mouse floats in the lower-bedroom toilet. The most recent entry in the guest book was made five months ago. The top newspaper in the kindling pile is dated September 29. The ship's clock in the front hall has stopped at 2:45, but whether that was A.M. or P.M. no one can tell. After gorging on summer for three months, the house has gone into hibernation. They call it the off-season, as if there were a switch in the cellar, next to the circuit breakers, that one flipped to plunge the house from brimming to empty, warm to cold, noisy to silent, light to dark. Outside, too, the world has changed color, from blues, yellows, and greens to grays and browns. The tangle of honeysuckle, Rosa rugosa , and poison ivy that lapped at the porch is a skein of bare branches and vines. The lawn is hard as tundra, brown as burlap. The Benedicts' house next door, hidden from view when I was last here, is visible through the leafless trees. The woods give up their secrets: old tennis balls, an errant Frisbee, a lost tube of sunblock, a badminton birdie. Out in the bay, the water is the color of steel and spattered with whitecaps; without the presence of boats to lend perspective, the waves look ominously large. On the stony beach, the boardwalk -- a set of narrow planks we use to enter the water without spraining our ankles on the algae-slicked rocks -- has been piled above the tide line, beyond the reach, we hope, of storms. A summer house in winter is a forlorn thing. In its proper season, every door is unlocked, every window wide open. People, too, are more open in summer, moving through the house and each other's life as freely as the wind. Their schools and offices are distant, their guard is down, their feet are bare. Now as I walk from room to room, shivering in my parka, I have the feeling I'm trespassing, as if I've sneaked into a museum at night. Without people to fill it, the house takes on a life of its own. Family photographs seem to breathe, their subjects vivid and laughing and suspended at the most beautiful moments of their youths: my father in his army uniform, about to go off to World War II; my aunt in an evening gown, in a shot taken for a society benefit not long before her death at twenty-eight; my grandfather as a Harvard freshman, poised to win an ice hockey game; my cousins in the summer of 1963, gathered on the sunny lawn. I am older than all of them, even though many are now dead. In this still house, where is the summer hiding? Perhaps in the mice whose droppings pepper the couch, the bats that brood in the attic eaves, the squirrels that nest in the stairwell walls. They are silent now, but we will hear and see them -- and the offspring to which they will soon give birth -- in a few months. For if the house is full of memory, it is equally full of anticipation. Dormant life lies everywhere, waiting to be picked up where it left off, like an old friendship after a long absence: that towel ready to be slung over a sweaty shoulder, that tennis ball to be thrown into the air, those chairs to be set out on the porch, that fishing lure to be cast into the bay, that guest book to be inscribed with a day in June. Even on the coldest winter morning, this house holds within it, like a voluptuous flower within a hard seed, the promise of summer. Copyright © 2001 by Simon & Schuster Excerpted from The Big House: A Century in the Life of an American Summer Home by George Howe Colt All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
Table of Contents
Prologue: Winter | p. 1 |
Part 1 | |
I Arriving | p. 5 |
II The Family Tree | p. 20 |
III 1963 | p. 30 |
IV The Discovery of Cape Cod | p. 42 |
V Rooftree | p. 60 |
VI Renovations | p. 79 |
VII Fishing | p. 89 |
VIII The North and South Faces | p. 100 |
IX The Barn | p. 117 |
X Plain Living | p. 123 |
XI Money | p. 131 |
XII Sailing | p. 142 |
XIII Tennis | p. 158 |
Midsummer | p. 173 |
Part 2 | |
XIV Hidden House | p. 181 |
XV The Big Cove | p. 205 |
XVI Missing Cards | p. 217 |
XVII Rain | p. 228 |
XVIII The White Elephant | p. 237 |
XIX Full House | p. 257 |
XX Florida | p. 272 |
XXI Leaving | p. 284 |
Epilogue: Indian Summer | p. 301 |
Notes on Sources | p. 321 |
Acknowledgments | p. 325 |