I’ve always had a soft spot for old historic homes. The allure of a slowed-down life, a place where stories unfolded, lives took shape, and work and play found an inspiring canvas. During home tours, I like to picture the original inhabitants moving through the rooms, rummaging, laughing, cooking meals, making plans – no digital-age distractions in sight.
Most of the time a home tour is the only doorway to these bygone days, but sometimes you get lucky and the sign out front says “Stay. Feast. Gather.” Such was the case with The Parrish Grove Inn, a lovingly restored 1901 home reimagined as a boutique bed and breakfast in Florida’s arts-infused Cocoa Village.
With our wedding anniversary nudging us to find a fresh way to celebrate, my wife and I brainstormed our options.
Me: “How about dinner at Bonefish Grill.”
Sherry: “We did that last year.”
Me: “How about dinner at Tuscany Grill.”
Sherry: “We did that two years ago.”
Me: “How about king crab legs at home?”
Sherry: “We did that for 10 years in a row. How about booking a room at a cool old-time bed and breakfast in Cocoa Village?”
Me: “We’ve never done anything like that.”
Sherry: “Exactly!”
Forgoing king crab and other fallbacks, we made the reservation and stepped into a world of timeless charm and modern comfort. At the recommendation of our host, Bonnie Belle, we chose the Magnolia Room, a spacious retreat complete with a king bed, sitting area, and large ensuite bath.
Sherry was impressed with the spa-inspired bathroom, the plush linens and the champagne on ice left on the dresser for our enjoyment. I, in sharp contrast, was entranced by a book placed casually in the sitting area: The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain.
What captivated me wasn’t just the appearance of a book featuring a long-gone literary legend – you can order those on Amazon any day of the week. This was something more: A rare first edition of Twain’s collected short stories, published by Doubleday in 1957. That level of nostalgic authenticity doesn’t happen by accident. Fighting the temptation to read a story or two, I respectfully returned the book to its sacred spot on the table and prepared for a night on the town.
As intended, the evening’s activities were a welcome break from the predictable anniversary rituals of recent years. We walked the village streets like explorers searching for clues to lost civilizations. We ate and drank the food and grog of strangers in a strange land. And long after we had done the occasion justice, we capped it all off with some music, wine and reminiscing back in our room at the Inn.
Hours after we turned in for the night I awoke to a muffled creaking noise downstairs. The sound was soft but persistent and it stirred my curiosity enough to investigate. Tiptoeing down the wooden staircase I caught sight of a man with white hair in a white linen suit sitting in one of the two rocking chairs on the Inn’s front porch. I thought about returning to the certainty of my room upstairs, but something about him made me walk out to the porch and break the solitary silence.
Me: “Good evening, sir. Has anyone ever told you that you bear a striking resemblance to Mark Twain?
MT: “Yes, I get that a lot.”
Me: “But, of course, you couldn’t be him since he passed on over 100 years ago.”
MT: “The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.”
Me: “Ha! That’s so Mark Twain… I mean that’s so you. I mean, you would be over 190 years old by now. That’s impossible.”
MT: “Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”
Me: “Whoa, it really IS you… or I’m having one doozy of a dream.
MT: “Both things can be true.”
Me: “Good point. Can I ask what brings you to the Parrish Grove Inn?”
MT: “It reminds me of my home outside Hartford, Connecticut. I loved that old house, did some of my best writing there.”
Me: “Why does this Inn remind you of that?”
MT: “Our old house had a heart and soul, just like this one. It has eyes to see us with, and we live in its grace and peaceful embrace.”
Me: “You know, there’s a first edition copy of your book of short stories in the room my wife and are staying in.”
MT: “I know. The Inn’s stewards, Kristi and Bonnie Belle, have done an admirable job of pairing past and present. It’s like I always say: Do the right thing. It will gratify some people and astonish the rest.”
Me: “I’m both gratified and astonished. Hey, before I get out of your hair, can you give this lesser-known humor writer some advice?”
MT: “Sure. Find fresh ways to say routine things. Be a storyteller who appeals to your reader’s emotions, needs and tastes. Make your words crackle with clarity, imagery, and humanity.”
Me: “Wow, thanks. Anything else?”
MT: “I could say more, but that would violate one of my other keys to good writing.”
Me: “What’s that?”
MT: “Don’t be a self-indulgent blowhard.”
Me: “Right! I’ll do my best. Good night, Mr. Twain.”
MT: “Sweet dreams. And happy anniversary.”
###
