Not far from the cottage where I spent summers stood Sheldon Hall, the beloved and well-known mansion built by Ralph Sheldon in 1920. It was, at the time of my childhood, not lived in, but was well cared for, the lawn a carpet of green that spread out forever beside the lake, the old manse stately but in danger of becoming lost to the century it had been built in.

It was also, more often than not, the forbidden playground to the summer kids that lived in the neighborhood and a curiosity to the people who lived nearby.

Times were different back then. You could leave a mansion alone for a decade or more, with no one but a caretaker to look after it once or twice a week, and there was little danger of vandals, thieves or squatters. Everyone just left the place alone.

In fact, besides us kids, the property only had two regular visitors: the caretaker, whom we called Frog Man because of his raspy voice, and Mrs. Betty Sheldon herself, who drove down the long road into Point Stockholm from time to time in an old Cadillac to check on things. On most of her visits, she’d just drive right by the house, acknowledging its undeniable presence without stopping, and then she’d drive on home.

Frog Man, on the other hand, would chase us away if he saw us, and always followed up with a short litany of thinly-veiled obscenities. Although he knew we were harmless, we were, after all, trespassing, and he had every right to be indignant. He was the mansion’s life blood, and he had a role to play.

The kids, though, we were summer trespassers, harmless frisbee players, hide and seekers, escapees from the drudgery of our own homes on hot summer days, before kids were required to actually do something constructive when out of school. We were a generation of wanderers, of walkers, of candy store addicts, of pipers walking single file through fields of bees and Queen Anne’s lace.

We pointed our compass everyday in the direction of whimsy and harmless recklessness.

We thought it odd as kids that such a beautiful place had been left alone for so long, and in some way, we believed we kept the place company by walking by from time to time. And Sheldon Hall didn’t seem to mind our presence. Our casual walks along the lake wall in bare feet, our hesitant exploration of the old barn, our peeks through the window to the boat house–we felt as though we were a witness to the home’s present and empty life, the only beings who stayed curious and interested in all its exterior nooks and crannies.

The other day I ran into the new owner of Sheldon Hall and I felt as if I had a story to tell him. His new history is part of my old history and I wanted him to know that for a time, we played in the fields surrounding the house and used the old path through the corn fields to get to the candy store. I wanted him to know all about Frog Man, and the old barn, and how we considered that place to be a small, but special part of our summer history.

He listened with interest and then he showed me some pictures of what they’d done to the place, slowly restoring it to its rightful glory. And I thought how lucky the property is to have a great family filling up its rooms again. Not all properties have such a happy ending, as we know, but if any place deserves it more, I can’t think of one. I think houses have their own soul–or at the very least, their own vibe, and Sheldon Hall always seemed like a happy place, if not a little lonely. It was just waiting, like a lot of lonely things in our world, to be loved again after four years on the market and spotty years over the decades where no one lived there.

And I have to say, if just for a few days each summer in the 1970’s, I’m glad to have kept the grounds company on occasion. Like a lot of people in our neighborhood, I was witness to a part of Sheldon Hall’s long life. It stood there like an elegant mystery to all of us, reaching from one era to another, trying to withstand the passing of time.

I’m still here to tell just a few of its stories.