Matt Greene

The Devon River delineates not only the face of this town—standing sentry as the faces of both its main thoroughfare and population change—but also separates two geographically and economically very different facets of New England. The structures on River Road, once referred to as a ‘taxpayer’ buildings (commercial storefront on the street level with housing for the owners on the second and third floors), have, in recent years, become increasingly overtaken by condominiums and high-priced luxury apartments. A sunrise over River Road and a sunset over the river itself is only the most recent advantage offered by the Devon River.

Past the west bank of the river, however, lies what amounts to an entirely different town, albeit bearing the same zip code. Referred to as ‘The Cut’ by old timers and townies (due solely to a small branch of the river that has, over time, carved through this part of town, leaving behind a scant trickle of nearly stagnant water at the bottom of a ragged and entirely unimpressive mini canyon), this section of Devon has scuffed knees and callouses, sprung boots and folk remedies. While the eastern side exists in a planned and predictable fashion—trees equidistant and parks planned and orderly—the Cut is shaded by old growth oaks and maples, removed only for financial necessity or when they inevitably fall in a nor’easter, taking a blameless roof or vehicle with them in their final moments.

The homes here share architectural aspects with East Devon. Built in largely the nineteenth century, these are of the ‘original’ farmhouse, as opposed to the increasingly trendy ‘modern’ farmhouse variety that decorate the other side of town. Steep roofs and steeper stairs. Wide pine floors that betray every late night step. Walls and foundations that subtly, yet consistently, voice their settling complaints in the dark. Generations of families have lived, loved, dreamed, cried, and died within the walls of these homes.

There are stories here; stories deeper and more complex than those of East Devon. Stories that—while they may not lend themselves well to presentation on social media—are somehow more vibrant and alive (we are, of course, excluding 177 River Road from this evaluation. Even in our brief visit, we could sense that that particular space felt as if it were composed of stories. Stories and dust). The sterile nature of newly minted condominiums does not lend itself well to authentic human experience. Life is messy, gritty, and often uncoordinated. The meaning of our lives is found not in the unmarred surface—the spotless countertop or the newly installed siding—but rather in the damage, the scars and scratches and scuffs left behind by experience. While the newer features and cleaner edges of the homes on the other side of the river offer blank slates and predictable outcomes, they lack the experience of being truly ‘lived in.’ The Pinterest worthy domiciles—with their expensive views and monthly fees, the nearly indistinguishable open-concept floor plans with exposed timbers (decorative, not load bearing), stainless steel appliances boasting ‘fingerprint resistant’—are short stories, at best. Fast food-short form-drive thru-140 character snippets of narrative.

In The Cut, however, each home is a library. Stories hosted and written, lived and experienced. Walls constructed, enriched, enhanced, and containing the lives they shelter.

Any one of these stories is worthy of study and closer examination. We could choose one at random and not be disappointed, directing our attention as we would at the most vital of human experiences.

And yet, we are ever pressed for time—subject to our own narratives and their unrelenting demands. We can not afford to aimlessly browse The Cut, and must direct our gaze at one home in particular. One small and intentionally chosen chapter.

15 Ash Street.