The Cunningham ancestors were challenging enough but the Chinese patriarchs were downright unnerving.

The elegant patriarchs looked down on us with steely cold dignity from their stations up on the walls in the dining room. There were four full-length portraits in traditional robes. They all gazed, with splendid aloofness, over the heads of whoever entered the room.

My husband, Bill, and I were at the home of his uncle and aunt, Ted and Sarah Sumner. They lived in a small community scattered along the end of a long lake in central New York State. I’d been hearing about Sarah's unique family home for years, filled with antiques, musical instruments, and formal Cunningham family portraits. I had been eager to see it.

But in reality, while traveling across the country to see Ted and Sarah had the outer aspects of a family visit, it was really something closer to a pilgrimage. They were now the family elders, in their mid-eighties. Ted was the last of four siblings, a group that had included my husband’s mother. It was very possible that this would be the last time we would see them.

On a morning near the end of our visit, we were sitting in the kitchen, a large and welcoming old-fashioned room. Windows on the south looked out through trees to the lake. Located in the very center of the room, the kitchen table looked like a lively, colorful tropical island -- a miniature fruit-filled Barbados which had made its way into an otherwise vintage home. 

I looked at Sarah with affection. Even though she was having some memory lapses, there was an essential quality alive in her, a willingness to engage directly and honestly, that I loved. “Yes, you married Ted, colorful character, antics and all. And here we are, all these years later.”

Ted beamed at his wife. “Yes, we’re the lucky ones.” We all smiled, looking around at each other. I had noticed how gentle and kind Ted was with Sarah. Under his joking and entertaining personality, he was revealing a layer of genuine caring and affection. It was very appealing.

“Why do you think some couples stay together?” Sarah asked. “I think it’s just luck. Don’t you?”

Instead of answering, I asked, “Doesn’t Tara live near here too?”

“Daughter Nicole lives in San Francisco. Sasha lives in New York, and, yes, Tara lives here. Back up the road. Near the dairy. It’s a good two-story house, not as old as this, and much easier to heat in the winter.”

Sarah faced us with her honest and direct gaze. “You know,” she continued, “Ted and I live right above here -- in what used to be the cook’s rooms. The heat from the kitchen goes right up to those rooms. We stay in the warm rooms, you see, here in the kitchen and right above. It’s the only way we can stay warm in the winter . . . now that we live here year round. We close the rest of the house and just live up there. We’ll stay here as long as we can. We get Meals on Wheels, you see. Five days a week."

There was a pause. Then Sarah suddenly asked, “How long have you two been married?”

“Thirty-eight years,” Bill answered. “We got married in 1972.”

“Why do you think some couples stay together? I think it’s just luck. We’re the lucky ones.”

“I think it’s more than that,” I responded. “It really helps to be good friends, to appreciate and support each other. And -- I have to say it -- I believe in grace.”

Sarah looked doubtful, as if she might challenge me, but her face cleared and she said, “Friendship. Yes, friendship is a form of grace.” Our mutual feelings of goodwill and affection prevailed.

Ted got up from the table, walked over to his wife, and kissed her on the cheek. He turned to us with a radiant smile. “Yes, we’re the lucky ones.”

Perhaps the Chinese patriarchs in the next room bowed, ever so slightly, giving us their silent and solemn acknowledgement.

Sher Phillips Gamard

This is an excerpt of a longer story which is an account of a visit we made to Mouses Hall in May 2010. My husband is Ted’s nephew, William Sumner Gamard. We live in Sebastopol, a charming small town in Sonoma County, California. 

For years, I wanted to have some sincere conversation and contact with my Uncle Ted, but he always had to be entertaining. Finally, we were able to have sincere and loving contact in that restaurant in Cooperstown, as the above photo shows. --Bill Sumner Gamard

About 1953, when I was about six years old, Ted came to visit his sister Deedie (my mother) in East Providence, R.I. He arrived on a motorcycle, he had a moustache, and he brought a banjo. I clearly remember that he strummed and sang the song, "Bye Bye Blues" ("Don't cry, don't sigh, bye bye blues"). --Ted's nephew, Bill Sumner Gamard