I just read some incredibly sad news that Mark Twain’s home in Hartford, CT, may shut down. It is just barely surviving now, sagging under a tremendous load of debt because of the lavish visitors’ center they opened a few years ago. Read the details here.
My husband, daughter and I toured this important historical landmark on a vacation a few years ago. We thoroughly enjoyed visiting the home. It is as unique and eccentric as Twain was… every nook and cranny has a story…
I wrote this poem after our visit:
Twain’s Home in Hartford
Mahogany stairs asceneded
the Victorian house
that Mark built. At the top,
the billiard room
contained a pool table, a Bible, and a writer’s desk.
In this space, line after line,
all the magic happened.
Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn laughed and
bantered from the rafters, as
they played tricks on the curator
that told us the story of the author’s life.
Sun shafts beamed through the
wavey, old glass and carried me
to the mighty Mississippi where
I played on the shores as a kid with Tom and Huck.
I chuckled through the generations
along with old Samuel Langhorne Clemens.
I had hoped, with him,
to persuade you somehow
to whitewash my picket fence today.