Page 32 of Wildwood

Madeline makes us tea, adding a spoonful of creamy honey to each mug, and brings over a plate of dried fruit, nuts, crackers and cheese.

“So, where should I begin?” she asks, sliding into a chair beside me.

Start big picture, I tell myself. Don’t launch into ghost stories right off the bat.

“Anywhere, really. I couldn’t find much online, so I’d be so curious to know what you know of the founding of Newfield Village, what our families did, any of that.”

She cracks a walnut and pops the flesh into her mouth, nodding.

“I’ll try my best.”

She tells me that Newfield was settled in 1771. Her family, the Brooks, were among the first settlers. They made their early fortune raising sheep for Merino wool, which had only just come to the United States, courtesy of Napoleon’s invasion of Spain.

“The nobility was desperate to raise funds to fight Napoleon, so they sold their prized sheep to merchants in the US.”

Madeline points to a grainy black-and-white photo of a flock of sheep. The animals stand side by side, with thick, dirty white coats, some with curling horns. The frame is a tarnished silver. I wipe crumbs from my hands and pick up the frame.

“That photo is from the 1850s. It’s probably one of the earliest photos in the country.”

I freeze, feeling too clumsy, too grubby to be handling such an heirloom.

“It’s fine, just be careful.” She laughs, seeing my expression.

“The sheep you have now?”

“Descendants of the original flock. Incredible, isn’t it?”

I nod.

“They were very well acclimated to the climate here. They have a cleft lip making it easy for them to graze on just about anything.

“Your family, as I understand it, was into logging. The Bishops owned thousands of acres along the Connecticut River at one point. They cleared great swaths of the property and had a mill that processed the logs. At some point they decided to replant, which I’m grateful for.”

She is passing around more ancient-looking photos. Serious-looking men, axes slung over a shoulder, standing in front of fallen trees, the trunks one, two feet in diameter. A train hauling lumber and a group of men in suits inexplicably standing on top of the engine car.

“I think the Bishops later went into dairy farming, after the lumber craze began to die down. I’m afraid I don’t have pictures of your property. The historical society may have a few.” She pauses.

It’s fascinating, hearing these stories, picturing my ancestors as playing significant roles in the early days of the state. It’s humbling, imagining the physical toll their daily lives must have taken on them, imagining the gumption required to seize the American dream so handily. But it also gives me an uncomfortable feeling. The images of the razed landscape. The images of men with axes, many of whom didn’t take home a fraction of what the Bishops probably did. Not to mention the fact that this land was not actually for the taking.

“Who was here before?” I ask.

“Our families were the first,” Madeline says in a way that makes me feel stupid.

“No, no, I mean, there must have been Native Americans here before them,” I explain, eager to clarify.

She gives me an awkward smile. “Oh. I believe it was originally Abenaki land.”

This uncomfortable fact hangs heavy in the air. Under every thriving city, every successful American dream, is land that not so long ago was inhabited by very different people.

I think, too, of my father’s lineage. Of the countless, nameless Chinese migrants who built the Transcontinental Railroad, completing the Summit Tunnel at the infamous Donner Pass, that brought so much economic prosperity to the country that took advantage of them. I don’t know what to make of the complex feelings churning in my stomach.

It’s almost as though Madeline’s reading my thoughts. She smiles. “My understanding is that your family was doing very well for themselves, but at some point, decided to stop expanding. Perhaps they were content with what they had achieved. Anyway, I know the Bishops sold off some of their land and scaled back the dairy farm.” She takes a sip of tea and looks out the window. “The Brooks were more ruthless.

“So,” she says brightly, as though to lighten the mood. “Is there anything else?”

I purse my lips, thinking. This is my chance.

“Yeah. Uh . . .” I feel suddenly hot and take a sip of the tea that’s cooled.