by Cathy Chesley
There's a relaxing calm about this morning. A cool breeze rolls in off the river, gently puffing the curtains from the window sill. The cry of a lone laughing gull harmonizes with the quiet lapping of the waves against the old dock. From somewhere in the village the muted sounding of a bell begins. The Seth Thomas on the bedroom mantel follows in quick succession, eight chimes. Cocking my ear street-side I hear the clickety-click of churchgoing shoes passing quickly on the bricks below. Quiet returns. And so begins a Sunday morning in Old New Castle.
The Strand, a long narrow street in Old New Castle, is appropriately named for its relation to the Delaware River. Tracing along the riverfront, The Strand was once a bustling commercial area. A visitor to Old New Castle can still stroll down Packet Alley, a historic thoroughfare which linked docks to village. Though now a somewhat out-of-the-way part of town, The Strand, with its tall, narrow, brick rowhouses, attic dormers, shuttered doors and windows, and remnants of cobblestones is reminiscent of an old-world village.
Those responsible for the preservation of Old New Castle have preserved more than just buildings. In keeping up gardens, lawns and marketplace, they have retained the recipe for a true Colonial village. The blend of small village atmosphere with a touch of rural flavoring makes living in Old New Castle an enjoyable experience.
From my third floor study windows in a typical Strand row house I have a special vantage point of Old New Castle. Turning towards the river, I look over an assemblage of small gardens, neatly bordered by white picket fences or hedges of boxwood. Beyond the gardens is the expansive lawn of the George Read House. Next comes the marsh, its wild rice swaying in the wind, an ideal habitat for nesting egrets. And then, the river. The scene is one of natural seclusion.
But as I turn in the opposite direction, the setting shifts. My downward gaze takes in a world of bricks, shutters and shingles, of cobblestones and an occasional passerby. Through my study window I watch people come and go-a businessman on his way to work, a child in search of a neighborhood pal or lost pet, a tourist on a leisurely stroll through town. And from my windows I watch the seasons pass in subtle succession, each one in its own simple beauty.
Autumn in Old New Castle is a time of quiet splendor. Morning sunrises spread their gold and yellow everywhere. The maples wave their honey colored leaves, scattering them in the wind while the chestnuts drop their fruits onto the brick sidewalks. A jaunt across the old marketplace might bring you knee deep in a rustle of leaves. The return of chilly nights is accompanied by the flavor of kindling hardwoods in the air. Bundles of cornstalks mark the harvest end. And just as the strawberry patches are covered under for their winter sleep, a late November flurry sprinkles snow-dust everywhere, while the last, lonely rose struggles on into December.
The weeks before Christmas are busy ones. The women work diligently to prepare their village for the holidays. Gathering early one morning at the Parish Hall, they take on a full day of wreath decorating. The scene is overwhelming: tables stacked shoulder high with the evergreen wreaths, the scent of balsam fir permeating every corner of the hall. Mounds of holly clipped from backyards and baskets of fresh fruit add to the gaiety. Those who can decorate go straight away at it-this one for the Post Office, these two for the Bank. Some pitch in by stringing cranberries or making popcorn balls, while others dish out ladles of homemade soup and keep trays of assorted goodies filled. When decorated, the wreaths are loaded into station wag- ons and delivered about town to the local merchants. Some shopkeepers even clear their store-front windows and allow the women, with a collection of assorted talents and antiques, to recreate nostalgic scenes of Christmasses past.
The ladies then return to their own homes for preparation there. The abundance of fireplace mantels, long stairways, and chandeliers make holiday decorating in Old New Castle a creative challenge. With the last evergreen bough in place, the holly ball hung, and the red silk ribbon wound along the banister, the ladies join again together with spouses, to relax and share in a sip of holiday cheer.
Winter has lingered on this year. The wind rattles in the upper stories as I look out over the river onto a desolate scene painted there. Gray sky, gray river, one blending into the other with the only contrast offered by the shifting ice floes at the marshes edge, or by a single gull hovering near shore in search of food.
Yet in the village the scene is a cozy one. Tall brick homes nestled closely about the marketplace, boot-trodden paths crisscrossing the green in all directions. The glow from a lighted hurricane lantern reflects through the panes onto the snowy sidewalk, and the scent of hardwoods ablaze in many a fireplace fills the air.
As days pass on and, from their doorsteps, townsfolk share doubts that winter will ever move on, the careful observer finds encouragement in the notice of lengthening days, dwindling snow piles at the doorstep and a change of avian population at the feeders. Spring will soon be along.
From the first sprouting of the daffodils, activity abounds. As the birds are busy gathering nesting materials, villagers are occupied with mending ailing fences, painting shutters, hoeing and planting gardens. Though generally small in size, the flower gardens in Old New Castle are an attraction in themselves. Each one boasts its own individuality. One in a soft scheme of pink and lavender, another sporting a gay potpourri of color. Some are planted with a simple, pleasant flavor, while others don more formal attire. The neat network of fences separating the gardens serves a useful purpose. Many a basket of strawberries or loaf of bread can be exchanged over the pickets. And there is always a gate for visiting.
May Market, sponsored by the local garden club is held at the beginning of the month. Here the ladies have a chance to sell or exchange their first spring blooms. As the latter part of May approaches the pace about town quickens in anticipation of A Day in Old New Castle. The buzzing activity is infectious. As the weekend draws near, flower baskets are hung, benches set out, and gardens trimmed and weeded. Finally, when all is in order, a sprig of mint plucked from the garden is added to tea in the icebox. For even though your house might on the official tour, you never know who might be stopping by on A Day in Old New Castle.
Spring soon gives way to summer. As the last basket of berries is passed over the fence, the village becomes serenely still. The summer haze collects over the river, sunflowers nod lazily over the fences, and many retreat inside to the coolness of their brick walls. Warm afternoons might find a few old men snoozing on a bench in Battery Park or a pair of baseball capped youngsters, crab nets in hand, making their way across the George Read lawn to the old dock.
Late afternoon brings in a puff of wind from the river where two or three sailboats dart about. Then, as darkness sets in, sails give way to the lighted tugs, chugging their way up river. In this fashion the summer days pass on.
There are fewer tourists passing by my windows now. The decline in their number signals the approach of winter. The cornstalks have already been gathered and the last tomato plucked. As I stack the wood in tightly under the back porch I think to myself how quickly this past year has gone by. And it won't be long until the strawberries need to be covered under once again.
This article is drawn from a diary Cathy Chesley kept on her first year living in Old New Castle.
Fall leaves dust the brick walks of Old New Castle where Colonials once strode and tethered their horses. The George Read Mansion stands tribute to that era, and other town architecture reflects the narrow passages of time. For centuries, the river has flowed and the seasons have changed under the watchful eye through a window on The Strand.
photography by Steve Pinkston and James H. Dawson
Delaware Today/December 1978
