It is with a heavy heart that I write this post to tell you that the Trumbull House has been sold. From what I understand, the new owner plans to create nine one room Studio Apartments in the main house, two more apartments in the barn and to add on to the Little House to form a home for his family.
I will be devoting at least the next few weekends – maybe many more – to a Memorial of the house that has been an anchor for my family for almost 100 years.
Trumbull House – June, 2020 – Front View
Trumbull House – June, 2020 – Side View
Trumbull House – June, 2020 – Back View
Quoted from the Reminiscences of Alfred Duryee Guion, “…. written in the spring of 1960 while on a four month’s “around the world freighter trip.”
How did we come to settle in Trumbull? Almost purely by chance. And it all happened because of a few weeks vacation spent at my brother-in-laws summer camp in Connecticut. One day Fred Stanley, who had married my wife’s sister Anne, told us he had rented a little shack in the woods near Sandy Hook, Connecticut, on the Housatonic River, and as he could use it only part of the time, he asked if my family would be interested in occupying it for a couple of weeks. We were, and one summer morning we loaded up the old Franklin with beds, mattresses, clothing and food and with five children and two adults, escorted by Fred to show us the way, we started merrily on our adventure. Approaching Danbury (Connecticut), the most awful bangs, rattles and clanking left no doubt that something was seriously wrong with my car. Luckily a Franklin repair service was located nearby and here we learned that a main bearing had burned out, which it would take a couple of days to repair. By dint of persuasion, seeing our plight, the headman finally consented to put all hands to work to try to finish the job by nightfall. Fred was to go on to the camp with the children in his car and Arla and I would stay with the Franklin until repairs were completed. While I watched the mechanics at work, Arla spent several hours chatting with the proprietor’s wife, who, she told me afterwards, painted a glowing picture of an old house they owned in a small country place called Trumbull, too far away for them to live in while conducting a business in Danbury, but evidently a dream of a home. She must’ve been a good saleswoman because Arla was so enthusiastic from the description given that when vacation time was over and I had to get back to work, she persuaded Fred to drive over to the place. It was a case of love at first sight and nothing would do but I must see it too and discover what an ideal place it would be for the children. I, too, was pleased with it
It was obviously out of the question as a practical proposition because, with a job in the lower part of New York City and a Connecticut home 7 miles from the nearest railroad station at Bridgeport, itself 55 miles from Grand Central Station, only a madman would give the matter a moment’s consideration. She reluctantly agreed and the subject was abandoned, in my mind, at least. As it has so often been said, it is unwise to underestimate the power of a woman. Returning home from work several weeks later, I found her one afternoon busily sketching at a table covered with several sheets of paper, and on inquiry, was told that she was figuring out how our present furniture would fit in the Trumbull house. Seeing how serious she was, there followed several weeks of weighing arguments pro and con, ending in the decision that, for the children’s sake, I would take the chance and try commuting between Bridgeport and New York.
The Larchmont house was sold for considerably more than it cost and the Trumbull property bought for considerably less than the proceeds from the Larchmont property. We moved in one late December day.
I believe this picture was taken in 1922 at the Trumbull House around Christmas. Elizabeth was born on January 6, 1919, making her 3 years old. Dick, the baby in Arla’s lap, was born on August 19, 1920, making him a little more than 2 years old.
Tomorrow I will post more information and memories of the Trumbull House.