It’s in the 50’s today. The skies are heavy with the color gray, and Weather Bug shows giant splotches of blue and yellow and red dancing all around us. I think we are going to get wet. So does Michael as he hands me a bright colored umbrella to accompany my somber black and gray outfit. I also shrug into the padded, lightweight jacket I bought a few years ago in anticipation of being cold on our Maine windjammer adventure.

The Livingston’s

In my three layers, I’m suitably warm and ready for Clermont—the wooded estate on the Hudson owned by seven generations of Livingston’s and bequeathed to the state in 1964 when there were no more heirs left to inherit from the childless sisters.

Before the Kennedys, before the Roosevelts, before the Vanderbilts, apparently there were the Livingstons.  This is the family from which the apple orchard owner of Montgomery House belonged; the stately home on the Hudson we stumbled on the first week we were here and in search of Saw Kill Falls. There are too many notable things about the Livingston’s to keep track of other than that they came from the Netherlands, they were into politics—one Livingston helping to draft the Declaration of Independence and also administering the oath of office to George Washington—and they were blue-blood rich, owning more land in the Hudson Valley than the size of the entire state of Rhode Island.

An Almost Private Tour

We scoot into the historic site, barely able to make the 2 pm tour.  We are part of a group of three—my almost favorite size—but we are told no pictures are allowed inside the house.  How will I remember? I won’t. I’m resigned.

It is the silly things I notice; a crystal chandelier never wired for electricity; a spilled glass of wine on the table commemorating the death of the matriarch who rebuilt the house after it was burned by the British during the revolutionary war. Our guide explains she died during a dinner party, right after she made a toast—a kind way to exit this world for her—doing what she apparently loved— albeit shocking to her guests.

The floorboards creak. The walls are stained with age. The ceiling sags. Paint flakes. But I can see the charm. And I can see the need to let it go, giving it to the state. The father of the woman that bequeathed the beautiful estate to New York never worked—there was no need. Instead, he sat at a small desk in the corner of his study and chronicled the lives of his ancestors. Meanwhile, his wife was upstairs sculpting in clay, and his young daughters ran up and down the hall, jumping high trying to touch the nose of the moose that hung over the doorway to the library. I wish I could take pictures. But with only three of us on the tour, I can’t even be quietly sneaky with my phone.

I make up for it outside, trying to capture the feeling and grace of this old place that I hope will stand for a long long time.

“Home, James.”

At 4 p.m. we sit in the car and Michael asks, “Where to next?”

“Home, James,” I reply.

“Well, I thought since we are so close, I’d try to get a better picture of the Hudson-Athens Lighthouse,”  he tells me.

His first photograph on Sunday was too far away—too small. His second on Monday was close enough, but the camera setting was off, and it looked like a study in blue.  Today, the third day might be the charm.

We make a few more stops on the way home for mushrooms, smoked bacon, and wine. As soon as we walk through the backdoor into our humble abode, Michael begins peeling potatoes, chopping mushrooms, slicing tomatoes, sautéing onions, whipping up eggs for an omelet, and popping bacon into the oven. Me? I need to rest for a while.  A good thing it is his week.