At the outlet of Little Pine tributary into Pine Creek in Waterville, PA, sits a once stately house. The front, which faces Big Pine has a cascade of windows not seen on the newer houses along the creek. An old dock floats just at the mouth of little pine. Two rusting chairs and a metal lantern sit along side a sign that says only “hotel”. Big Pine is wide here; sparkling. Across the creek Tiadaughton State Forest climbs up a steep mountainside which casts deep shadows on its side of the creek. Perhaps at the time the house was built the trees were small, having just been replanted after the total deforestation of the logging years. Even now, there are remnants of life all about the house. A broken-down vintage car, indoor furniture left to the elements, toys and pieces of wood, empty cages and old signage. Someone with a penchant for collecting trash must’ve lived here. Perhaps they had ideas for the stuff, for the house, which has fallen into total disrepair; feral cats slink from broken windows. The truth is that no one has lived here for a long time. But for a man named Brant, living across the creek, it was the familial home.
My family bought “The Creek House” in 2007. It’s a one-story house built like a cabin but with more accommodations. It’s set on Big Pine, on Sassafras Lane, Waterville. We bought it directly from a man named Ron, who built it in the seventies. He was moving up the mountain with his wife in his retirement. Ron was “mayor” of the town, though in a town this small it was more an assigned job than an elected title. In this way, we immediately became familiar with the town. We became friendly with the neighbors immediately and my father started helping stir apple butter for the annual festival. The town has one store, popular in the summer with tourists, and a tavern which in 2007 was owned and operated by the same man who had owned it for fifty years. Although built in the 1850s, the tavern was covered in beer signs and full of taxidermy; it had little historical charm but lots of local charm. The rails to trails goes right through the town following the creek and over Little Pine via a preserved railroad bridge. It was by this bridge that my family and I first encountered Brant. Brant was perpetually in his yard in the shade of that decaying but gorgeous house of his. The house sits on the rightaway to the creek, which families visiting use to launch their kayaks. Brant greeted us one day and when my mom came to his yard to inquire about his chairs. He was a short, wiry man with a few teeth and leering demeanor. He took us into the yard where he displayed his table set. “It’s from the house,” he explained. “I ‘member sitting at there chairs eating Oreos. They were my grandmother’s.” My mother was obviously charmed by the story even though the chairs were in terrible shape. She asked the price. “$100 each,” Brant exclaimed confidently. My mother told him she would have to think about it and we went up back up the trail, laughing about the price of the chairs. At the Apple Butter Festival that year Ron told my father about the house. He said that it had been sitting in disrepair since Brant’s mother had died years ago. Ron, a contractor, had been requested to survey the house. He confirmed that the inside looked as bad as the outside and that the attic was a feet deep in bat guano. For years I didn’t see much of Brant, although I went past his house often. He had a roost of several French chickens which were rumored to be very expensive. They were orange and yellow and red and had large plumes of feathers on their tails and heads. Sometimes we would see Brant at the Apple Butter festival, but he rarely stayed long. I always had a soft spot for him as I felt that he was a little misunderstood. My family’s fun at his expense never exactly sat right with me. Maybe I saw a little of myself in his eccentricity. The night of December 31 2018 was cold. My family and I had decided not to go to ‘’The Creek House’’ because of the blustery weather, breaking a tradition of spending the holiday there. It wasn’t until the next morning that we heard the news. There had been a standoff between Brant and state troopers. The incident had ended in Brant being shot; killed on impact. Neighbors said that they knew that something was wrong. For days before Brant had been shooting at his prized chickens. This was unusual behavior and probably a sign of the paranoia that was to follow. Yes, Brant had a gun and probably several of them. He was across the creek when the troopers were called. It was him that called them, I learned later. He called because of a medical issue. According to the police reports Brant was inside when the EMTs arrived but would not let anyone into his house because he thought someone was trying to poison him. He barricaded himself inside the house with his gun. For several hours (seven to be exact), Brant exchanged fire with state troopers. Eventually, as the troopers tried to gain access to the house, he was shot and killed. He was 62 years old. "It didn't surprise me because I know the person is a bit unstable I guess I would say and has had altercations with other people and myself and my grandchildren," said Melanie Reading, neighbor, in an interview with local news outlet WNEP. Her view reflects what I heard from most of my neighbors in Waterville. But surprisingly, there was also an outpouring of sympathy. Whatever his faults, Brant had been part of the community and had been a generally nice person. Though my parents warned us about him, I had always felt that he was nothing to worry about. He was someone who kept to himself and was fiercely loyal to the land on which he was raised. Certainly for a person of his demeanor there was not a place more private than across the creek in Waterville, PA. In other words, he wasn’t bothering anyone. Brant’s obituary revealed more about him than he ever said. Born in Vermont, he had been the proud owner of the house at the corner of the creeks when it was still a bed and breakfast. The obituary describes him as a talented artist and photographer although he made a living as a “jack of all trades”. It says that he worked in the Bahamas as a teenager, restoring a hotel there as a well. It also mentions his ’48 panel truck which he had fully restored. Overall it painted a picture of a man you’d like to get to know, not a “strange” person. I think that my family felt bad for the way they had treated Brant in private, even if he never knew. For my own part I am always alarmed when police are involved in mental health calls that end in violence. Clearly Brant was suffering from some kind of psychosis, but no one was present to bring him down to reality. Guns didn’t help the situation any. It’s selfish and voyeuristic to say that I miss Brant because he added flavor to the neighborhood. But I do think that his death was tragic. He was a man that attracted attention because he was different, but he never demanded it. Now both houses sit empty. I have heard rumor that the land is worth quite a lot of money. The manor house will probably not be torn down because the zoning will not allow for a new one to be built. I myself would like to see it restored to its former glory. When I walk to the house I can feel a presence. After all, this was a well-loved place. Brant so imbued it with his personality and personal treasures that it is hard not to feel that it’s haunted. The creeks kept running and the rightaway is as clear as ever. No chickens and dogs are around anymore, though. It feels both lifeless and buzzing with life. Whether or not Brant lived a whole life is up for debate. His obituary indicates that he did. Where a life was tragically cut short, it is hard not to feel the weight of tragedy in this place. It will forever be a place of mystery and whispers on the wind for me.
0 Comments
|