MARK TWAIN'S HOUSE

by Cathy Plum ~ ~ Summer 2008

I had heard that touching the famous “handrail” in Mark Twain’s Connecticut home was something every writer should experience. For some, it was the equivalent of shaking the hand of the genius himself, whose real name was Samuel Clemens. In the stale air of a museum, could I really hope to recall the air that once moved through the home? Was it a gentle breeze on a summer’s eve, or a winter’s bellow that blew past him and inspired great works of art? That’s what I went to find out as I traveled to Hartford , Connecticut to go to the home of Mark Twain. I wanted to see if I could get a glimpse of what he saw, and I wanted to be inspired.

I spent the trip recalling the adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Tom Sawyer, and Becky Thatcher. I always wanted to be Becky Thatcher when I was a kid -- swinging off a rope into a lake, hanging out with the bad boys, and living in the country. It was the complete opposite of my childhood, (well maybe there were a few bad boys).

I arrived at Mark Twain’s house before 9:30 a.m. , and was the first patron that sunny Monday morning. There was a woman sitting on the vast porch. She proudly wore a red, white, and blue nametag that said “Olivia C, Volunteer Tour Guide.” She welcomed me into the beautiful house – filled with Twain’s original furniture and family portraits. Olivia began immediately telling me vivid stories that were alive with detail. As we walked, our voices echoed through empty halls.

After the standard tour, I started asking Olivia questions. She answered each one quickly and with great recollection, like she knew Twain personally. She had a twinkle in her eye each time she referred to him as “Sam”. I told Olivia we should write a book together, but first I had to touch the “handrail”. She laughed and said, “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Put your hand firmly on the handrail, and then close your eyes.”

A bit apprehensive, I followed her instructions and placed my hand on the famous handrail. I closed my eyes. All at once, I felt dizzy. When I opened my eyes, the house was very much alive. No longer was I in a quiet, empty house. I stood with my hand firmly on the “handrail” and the enticing smell of baking bread sailed through on the flowery summer breeze. I heard the distinctive sound of a typewriter in the halls that were quiet just a moment ago, and I heard children playing upstairs. I glanced through the front screen door and the plain front porch now donned proud swags of vibrant holiday colors in red white and blue. Suddenly, I was in a small kitchen. A woman stood directly in front of me, but I could only see her back. When she turned around to face me, I became scared and quickly lifted my hand from the worn wood.

Olivia’s voice brought me back. She was telling a story of a gala Fourth of July celebration. I noticed a twinkle in her eye and I knew in an instant that she must have experienced what I just saw. She had smelled the baking bread and heard the typewriter in the halls. She had touched the handrail all right. That’s how she knew the stories. I sat down on the stairs and started to cry. As the first tear fell upon my cheek, without question, Olivia handed me a hankie. When I looked up, she was gone. I called to her but I was alone.

A moment passed, and a young woman walked through the front screen door. “Hi. I’m Carrie, the tour guide. Sorry I’m late. Have you been waiting long?”

“Where’s Olivia?” I asked. I looked down at the hankie my esteemed tour guide had just given me.

“There is no one here named Olivia, not anymore anyway.” After a glance into thin air, Carrie began recalling memorized facts about the Twain lineage. “Olivia, Olivia … let me see. Olivia Langdon Clemens, wife of Samuel Clemens, born in 1845 and died in June 1904. She was often found in the kitchen. She loved to bake bread.”

Stunned, I looked down at the hankie and slowly opened it up. Embroidered in bright blue with red flowers, were the initials “OLC” Olivia Langdon Clemens! My very knowledgeable tour guide, Olivia C, had been none other than Olivia Langdon Clemens, wife of “Samuel” Clemens! It was her in the kitchen, cooking the bread. That’s how she knew the stories – she lived them. Her love for this beautiful home, and for “Sam”, echoed in her stories. She had touched the handrail all right … many, many times. And, she had picked me from all the other writers who had visited before.

I let an anxious Carrie take me on my second tour of the Twain home as she filled my head with more facts about the life of Samuel Clemens. The last surviving member of the family was his granddaughter, Nina, who died just three days before I was born. Before long, I knew that Carrie would be a valuable source for Twain’s lineage.

The long road I had traveled to Connecticut seemed almost surreal as the sights, sounds, and smells of the past swirled around my head.

When it came time for me to touch the famous handrail, I faltered for a moment. I told Carrie that we should write a book together, but that I had to touch the handrail first. This time, I shook Twain’s hand when I touched his handrail – and politely thanked him for the tour.