Origins

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When asked where my family is from, I never answer Yonkers, NY (where I grew up). And although I might mention Ohio (where my dad’s family is from), I always—without fail—focus on Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts. As a child, I spent every summer in Shelburne Falls and grew up hearing stories of the impact our family had on this tiny village in the foothills of the Berkshire Mountains.

There are grand and glorious stories (that are not considered so glorious by today's standards) of Martin Severance, the town’s first settler and my four-times great-grandfather fighting against the French and Indians in the mid-1700s, being captured and taken to Canada, and eventually escaping and making his way back to his then home in Deerfield, Massachusetts via France and England before settling in what would become Shelburne Falls. 

My great-grandfather George G. Merrill, Martin’s two-times great-grandson, was a stonemason, as was his father Ira, and Ira’s father Thaddeus. Ira and George built much of the original infrastructure in Shelburne Falls: the granite walls along the river, the Shelburne Falls House Hotel, the foundation of Arms Academy, and the beautiful elongated twenty-one room colonial-style home where I spent my summers. This house represents my origin story.

George Gilson Merrill and Emily “Emma” Frances Field married on September 19, 1871. After taking a honeymoon trip west to Illinois and Wisconsin (visiting relatives along the way), they settled in the house in Shelburne Falls that George had built for he and Emma to start their lives. The house rests on a granite foundation, a horseshoe driveway in front lined with a granite curb. A short granite wall separates the front yard from the sidewalk between the driveway entrance and exit, with granite hitching posts at each end. Behind the central part of the house a taller, three-and-a-half foot high granite wall separates the lower backyard from the upper backyard, making the narrow lower area flat and usable as a sitting area. Behind the narrow south addition is an even taller, five-foot-tall granite wall, seemingly holding the wooded area above in place. This wall extends seamlessly into the foundation for the barn that that once stood, now framing the grass covered cellar hole.  

I could go into depth about every room in this home, having spent hundreds of hours soaking in the history and getting to know the ghosts that resided there, but I guess the question that ruminates in my head is what has this house, this home for five generations of my family taught me?  With the granite blocks always within reach, the evident lesson is hard work. The work of a stonemason is brutal. George’s father Ira was killed in an accident after being hit by a huge derrick being used to move granite at the local cutlery factory. Uncle Roy lost an eye in a dynamite blast, and G.G. lost his way to alcoholism.

From this home, I also learned the value of strong family bonds (and a love of travel). Within it once lived a tight knit group of siblings, the six children of George and Emma. Although they went off to visit and live in places across the country — and across the ocean—they came back for visits, bringing mementos of their travels: a white embroidered tablecloth from 1910 Bavaria, a woven blanket from 1905 Arizona, candlesticks from 1915 Marshall Field’s in Chicago, and a Panama hat from the building of the canal. 

The house also held almost two thousand letters that had been sent back to Mama and Papa, Grandma, and Alice, Arthur, Georgie, Roy, Philip, and Eddie. It held letters sent home from Williams College, Dartmouth, Smith, and Worcester Polytech. From studies in Germany in the 1890s and later in 1910. From the Francis W. Parker School and Hull House in Chicago. From the Panama Canal and Camp Verde, Arizona. From Fort DeSoto, Florida and the United Drug Company headquarters in Washington, D.C. Even further back there were letters from the 1820s textile mills in Ware and Adams, Massachusetts.

I never had cousins on my mom's side of the family. My mom had been an only child and had just one cousin her age, with four much older cousins. Although George and Emma had six children, there were only six grandchildren, and then only nine great-grandchildren, my second cousins, who I barely knew. This house and its ghosts have always been my closest family.

It’s amazing how the belongings a person leaves behind in one life can continue to preserve and act as a conduit of their spirit, influencing those who come after. I have learned from these ghosts the importance of perpetuating for my children the same close family ties they had shared with each other. That’s why I write about them. They made a difference to me and have taught me what to hold dear.