The massive stone house was built from honest Ordovician limestone, quarried on the grounds. Now, grass makes its inevitable way through the cobblestones in the courtyard, and the windows are dusty in the chauffeur's rest, a clubhouse opposite the front door so the driver would be instantly available. But somewhat comfortable. A fountain, which once cascaded downhill to the moat below, is still. A morel mushroom, rare and expensive, grows on the path to the teahouse.
Nobody lives here now.
Julius Fleischmann died in 1968, and his wife, Dorette, died two years ago. Only the house is left intact. My new friend, C. Wesley Cowan, auctioneer, anthropologist and thoroughly nice person, says he imagines parties. I look around and see myself hanging out with the 37 full-time servants. Julius Fleischmann was only 23 years old when he built Winding Creek Farm with a small portion of the family fortune made from yeast, margarine and gin.