Yesterday, I headed for the wilds of Wilmot to interview Walter Walker. He said he had some good stories for me, and he did. More about that in a later blog. Naturally, I got lost on the way to his house. Found myself nearly at the height of land on a dirt road that looked like it was narrowing to nothing. Having been in such situations many times, I turned around in a bar gap and stopped at the only house I’d seen in a ways. I could hear a saw going upstairs and noticed sawdust flying out the window, so I knew somebody was home. I knocked real loud. A young(er than me) woman came to the door, with a little girl right behind and a big dog giving me the sniff treatment.
“I’m lost,” I said.
I pause here to once again address the myth that Northern New Englanders are cool, standoffish, and unhelpful. When I asked, “Do you know how to get to Pinnacle Road," Kathy (that was her name, I found out) said she’d heard of it, but didn’t know exactly where it was. Pretty soon her husband, Steve, came downstairs. He knew where it was and how to get there. (He did not say: “You can’t get theyah from heah, (because afterall, we are in New Hampshire, not MAINE) I said I was a story gatherer on my way to see Walter Walker. Did they know Walter Walker? “No,” Steve said, “I never met him. Is he a carpenter?” I said I believed he was. Steve said: “I don’t know Walter Walker, but I know his work. He worked on this house an owner or two back.”
Pretty soon I was getting a tour of their 1790 farmhouse, which Steve and Kathy believe is the oldest in Wilmot, though they haven’t yet convinced the historical society. They’ve owned it just a year and are bringing it back to life. They showed me the stenciling done by itinerant artist Porter Harris, or one of his apprentices, a couple centuries ago. They showed me the rough-hewn beams in the ceilings and the attic. Steve said: “I know Walter Walker does good work because I’ve torn some of it out.”
Some of it’s staying though, including the frame to the stairway.
Armed with fresh directions, I headed for my car. “Wait a minute,” Steve said. “I’ll lead you to Pinnacle Road. I’m headed for the village, anyway.” Then, “I go right along fast; is that OK?”
I said I thought I could keep up. And I did. Barely.
Arrived at Walter Walker’s house a half hour late, but he and Judith didn’t seem to mind. We had stories and supper: tomatoes, chop suey (the old fashioned kind with macaroni and hamburg), cukes thin-sliced in vinegar, and broiled patty-pan squash. For dessert, brownies. “I didn’t make them myself,” Judith said. “Got them at the bake sale. But I know the woman who made them.”
“That’s all right then,” I said. And helped myself. Walter gave me this picture of his fifth
birthday party in 1935.
That’s his sister, Marjorie, sitting opposite him. The little lady in front with her legs crossed is my mother. And the very little girl at the back is my Aunt Lila.
