Today, there’s no longer a gas pump on Main Street but Francestown remains as pretty as ever.

28.The House on Pleasant Pond

Written in 2016

For over 30 years, Richard and I had dreamed of renting a house on an island. In that time, there have been two occasions to do so, but both fell through. We'd pretty much given up on the idea. Until we went to Francestown. 

Francestown, a tiny village in southern New Hampshire founded in 1772, has a population of 1600 that swells to 2000 in summer. Its main street is lined on both sides with beautifully restored colonial-style homes painted in a range of pale colors with contrasting shutters. There's a general store that sells anything you might need in a pinch–milk, eggs, bread, tampax, toilet paper, and state maps.  It even has an old-fashioned gas pump in front that works.  At the south end of the street is the post office. On the north end is the Episcopal Church, that also serves as the town's public meeting place.

A few miles further north is Pleasant Pond--187 acres of placid and beautiful water, half hidden by a forest of old, magnificent trees.  About 80 houses border the pond, all set discreetly back from the edge of the water, and all owned and inhabited by generations of local families.  Their forebearers found it hard to believe that so large a body of water, fed by the springs from the high surrounding hills, could be so unruffled by the wind.  Hence, Pleasant Pond.  Locals still describe it as being 350 rods long, just a mite longer than a mile.

Our daughter-in-law, Sara, a descendant of the founders of Francestown, spent her childhood summers with her family on Pleasant Pond in a camp (local parlance for rustic cabin) built by her grandfather.  Now she and our son, Tom, make the trip from Takoma Park, MD to spend the summers there with their three kids.  Richard and I have fallen in love with Francestown, too, as have our daughter, Christine, her husband Steve and their two kids. Every August we drive from NYC to NH so that all eleven of us can spend a week or two together.

Sara, Tom and kids stay at the camp.  Richard and I, and Christine, Steve and their kids, stay at Crotched Mountain Inn, a five-minute drive away.  Our daily ritual is to spend mornings at the Inn, playing tennis and cooling off in the pool; then swimming and kayaking at Pleasant Pond in the afternoon.  And that's how we became aware of a small island off the southern end of the Pond, covered with pine trees and with an inviting little cottage on it. 

Six years ago, when we first saw this house peeking through the pines, it appealed to us immediately. Its red roof, the putty-colored clapboard siding, the crisp white curtains in the second story windows, its wide screened porch facing the pond, and the weathered hammock suspended between two birch trees on the edge of the water, called out, "I'M YOURS!"

No one seemed to be living in the house, and neither Sara nor anyone in her family knew who owned it.  "And, anyway," she said, "very few people on the pond lend or rent their homes to anyone outside their immediate families."  Disappointed, but sensing that Sara was right, we gave up the idea of renting it.

But dreams have a habit of lingering.The next summer, as in the past, we swam around the island every afternoon and looked longingly at the house.  Still not a soul in the hammock or on the porch, but off the island's northern point, a sign had been posted in the water, Please Don't Disturb the Loons.  Another reason to love the place.

On the last day of our stay, Richard and I met a woman playing "go fetch" with her dog at the boat ramp as we were loading our kayak on the car. We exchanged pleasantries and found out she lived across the road.  Just for the heck of it, I asked if she knew any houses on the pond for rent.  She said no, but then paused:  "Well, once in a while the house on the island has renters, but not often."

"Do you know who owns it?" I asked. 

"An older couple in town, Jack and Nancy, but I don't know their last names.  They live in a white house a few doors down from the post office, on the other side of the street."

Bingo!

"Come on, let's go," Richard said, getting in the car. One of the reasons I fell in love with Richard is that he was always up for an adventure.  "Sure," he'd say, whenever a serendipitous moment presented itself. "Let's give it a try."

With the kayak on top of the car, me in my flipflops, Richard in his Keens, and both of us in wet bathing suits, we took off toward the other end of town.  First we stopped at the general store and asked if the owner knew Jack and Nancy.  She did not.  We then drove to the post office and asked the clerk at the counter.  Nope. 

Richard drove further down the street.  There were three white clapboard houses in a row on the other side.  None had names on their mailboxes, but one had two cars parked in the driveway.

"Let's give it a try, "I said. 

"What are you going to say?" Richard asked as he parked the car. 

"Don't know yet," shaking my head.  I walked up to the front door and rang the bell.  It took a while for the door to open; it seemed stuck.  Finally a man, probably in his sixties, appeared.

"Sorry about this door.  No one's used it for months.  We always use the back door."

"Is your name Jack?" I asked. 

"Yes," he answered.  A woman appeared right behind him.

"And are you Nancy?"

"Yes."

Double Bingo!

I introduced myself … explained that my son and daughter-in-law had a house on Pleasant Pond Road … we enjoyed swimming in the lake … I'd admired the island house for years … wondered who owned it … had just found out that afternoon ... we were going back to NY tomorrow… so sorry to bother them.  Finally, I stopped.

"Would you like to come in?" Jack asked, having opened the door to its full width.

"If it's not too much trouble," I said, not believing my good luck.

"That your husband in the car?" he asked, looking beyond my shoulder.  "Tell him to come in, too."

I tried to contain my excitement as I motioned to Richard, but my voice gave me away as I yelled for the whole town to hear, "IT'S THEM!" 

We stayed for over an hour, sitting in their sunroom and drinking Nancy's homemade iced tea.  Jack did most of the talking.  He told us that his family, the Bixby's, was descendants of the town's founders as was Sara's family, the Hills, and that he believed he was a cousin of Sara's father.  In fact, he knew about the whole Hill family – their camp on the pond, that Sara's father taught at Cornell and her mother was a Montessori teacher, that there were four siblings, and that they all were good tennis players. 

By now I believed in miracles.

Then we talked about the house.  They loved it, but seldom used it anymore they said.  It was too inconvenient at their age, at which point Richard looked at me as if to say "they're probably younger than we are." Both of their grown sons, who were married and lived in other states, no longer spent their summers on the island.  

            "They come to see us over the 4th of July and stay for a week at the camp, but no more than that," Nancy explained.  "Lugging groceries over in the rowboat and rowing garbage back to the mainland have become too much of a chore now that they have young kids.  It's yours to rent, if you wish."

However, Jack said, he had a major concern. He didn't think that Richard, overweight by 50 pounds, and whose arthritic knees required that he use a cane to get around, would be able to manage getting in and out of the rowboat. 

"I'll manage somehow," Richard assured him.  Jack looked dubious.

As we got into the car, Jack yelled, "Don't forget to ask Sara if she knew Aunt Esther and Uncle Harry."

Back at the Inn, I emailed Sara who had returned to Takoma Park the day before to get the kids ready for school.  She replied immediately. "What an amazing small town story.  Who thought the island house was owned by a relative!  Actually, Harry is Dad's uncle, my great uncle, but I knew him and Aunt Esther very well.  I'd swim over to their house across the pond every afternoon for her amazing brownies.  As I sit here sulking that I'm back in suburbia, it makes me so happy to imagine swimming over to visit you next summer."

After dinner, our excitement turned to a more practical discussion of what it would mean to rent a house on an island.  Transporting food and drink across the pond in a rowboat could be problematic.  Food shopping would require an exact list of needed supplies, and forgetting an item would not be a simple thing to rectify.  Jumping into the car, as we were accustomed to doing, to play tennis, buy a book, see a movie, or do anything spontaneously, would require a row across the pond.

And then there was Richard. "Are you sure you're up for this? I asked."Just watch me," he said.

Richard called Jack and made a date to see the house the next morning. We met at the boat ramp at 10:00am.  Jack and Nancy got in their motorboat (which didn't come with the house) and offered their hands to help us in.  But Richard wanted to use the rowboat (which did come with the house) to prove that he could. 

I took Richard's cane, and Jack steadied the boat as Richard stepped in.  He placed his right foot in the middle of the rowboat, held onto my shoulder for support, and lifted his left foot into the boat.  The boat swayed and it took some time for Richard to find his balance.  I held my breath until he was seated. 

"Nice going," Jack said.  Then, as he helped me in, "The man knows what he's doing," he admitted.

Richard proved to be a good rower but he was less successful in getting out of the boat and onto the dock on the other side.  Maintaining his balance as he tried to stand up wasn't easy, and the posts on the dock were too far apart to use to hoist himself.  Jack offered to help, but Richard said he had to figure this out on his own.  If we rented the house next summer, Jack wouldn't be around to help.

After several unsuccessful tries, he sat down again and rethought his strategy.  Slowly, he swiveled around on the seat and swung his legs onto the dock.  While still sitting, half in, half out of the boat, with me on the dock in front of him holding both his hands, he managed to wiggle his butt onto the dock until his body was completely out of the boat.  Then, with another huge effort, he turned over, got on his hands and knees, and tried to stand. 

It took five tries.  His knees hurt so much, pushing down against the wooden slats of the dock, that I could barely look as he winced and groaned.  And, with each try, he'd apologize for taking so long.  

"Don't worry about us," Jack said.  We're impressed with your tenacity!"

Finally, Richard was on his feet, sweating but smiling."Sonnovabitch!  I did it.”

We all walked up the short path to the house and entered through a spacious, well-equipped kitchen.  Jack led Richard out to the screened porch spanning the width of the house and offering views of the whole length and width of the pond. Nancy walked me through the cavernous living room, with wainscotting on all four sides, a huge couch, three rocking chairs, a TV and recliner, windows on three sides, and pond-views-through-the-trees all around.  Upstairs were three bedrooms with white chenille spreads and vintage quilts on the beds; on the windows were snow-white curtains tied back to reveal more magnificent views of the pond.

Back downstairs, I found Richard on the porch, resting in one of the several wicker rocking chairs, looking dreamily out at the water. "Who'd ever want to leave this place?" I heard him say to no one in particular.

Rowing back to shore, he had an easier time with it.  I don't think his knees could have absorbed another round of painful contact with the dock, nor could his pride have suffered another humiliation.  When we reached the other side, the posts on the dock were positioned in such a way that he was able to use them, with some help from me, to raise himself from the boat onto the dock on his second try.

"We definitely want to rent next summer," we told Jack and Nancy simultaneously. 

"Just let us know when," Jack said.

Back in our car, before turning on the ignition, Richard turned to me. "I did it for you," he said, after getting his breath back."I didn't want to be the reason we don't rent that house next summer." He reached over and touched my cheek. Taking his hand and kissing it, I said, "I owe you a big one." He started the car.  

"Damned right. Let's stop for double scoops of Butter Pecan on our way out of town.  Your treat!"