I fell in love with The Lobster Pot, the gray-shingled cottage at the entrance to Menemsha, long before I ever stepped inside. After years of trying out different rentals in the small fishing village, we arrived one summer for a three-week stay on Flanders Lane with views of the pond. To our surprise, we were met by a worn-out welcome mat and unhinged screen door. “Don’t unpack yet,” I cautioned my family before doing a full inspection. I reported the conditions to our realtor, who agreed to relocate us down the road to a smaller but clean cottage. 

It was there that I had the opportunity to run up North Road each day past the home with the words “The Lobster Pot” affixed to a sign over the door. It stood empty – no sign of anyone – and yet red and green lights framed the doorway, welcoming travelers. I tried to sneak a peek inside, but the big wraparound porch made it impossible. The lobster trap on the porch roof made me think the place was, or might once have been, a restaurant. But there was also something homey about it: a garden gone to weed, empty window boxes, and tables and chairs scattered about the porch. I asked neighbors and other villagers about the house and got a variety of responses. Some said it had been a restaurant; others believed it was owned by a family of long-time summer residents or had been a B&B. All of this further fueled my curiosity and interest. 

At the end of our stay, as we discussed our rental debacle, we decided to inquire about properties for sale in Menemsha. The realtor deposited a stack of listings and, though we’d received a small inheritance that year, all were well out of our reach. As we packed up on our last day, an additional listing came through our mail slot – it was for The Lobster Pot. I quickly called the realtor. We had a ferry to catch and a dog that had just been sprayed by a skunk, but I was undeterred.

In the living room, two camp chairs greeted us in front of the fieldstone fireplace. The smell of fish mixed with mustiness and mystery. Green pickled wood lined every wall. Books and games gathered dust on the shelves. Candles and shells sat on the fireplace mantle; a painting of a boat framed without glass hung there too. The central kitchen counter held a farmhouse sink. Open shelves displayed an assortment of plates and bowls and glasses. A pantry brimmed with the expected and unexpected: fishing rods, tablecloths and napkins, pots and pans, garden tools and a huge cabinet packed with stuff – a museum filled with treasures. The cottage was listed “as is,” meaning you could either take it with the full contents or empty.  

We decided quickly to put in an offer at the asking price – as is, full contents. A little while later, we heard back that another offer had come in – twice the asking price, cash, no contingencies. Oh well, we thought. Too bad. To our amazement, the next week, after we had detached from our plans for The Lobster Pot, the realtor got back to us: Our offer had been accepted. We had no idea what had transpired in this interval. In fact, it would be years before we would come to understand.

In the two decades that I have owned The Lobster Pot, I have made it my goal to learn the history of the property and to connect with people who have associations with the house.

The original owners of the home were two sisters, Helen Aston and Eva Jones. Both teachers in New Jersey, they’d come to the Island in June 1919 to see Helen’s fiancé, Stanley Aston, who was back from World War I and in Menemsha visiting a friend with whom he’d served in the Army. Helen and Stanley married briefly, but Stanley suffered from the war and eventually was institutionalized. She later returned with her sister to the place whose beauty had captured her – a place that might also heal her heart.

Eva was equally smitten. Like me, the sisters spent a few years renting various cottages around the Island. Having helped a friend briefly run the Indian Hill Tea House in West Tisbury, they eventually hatched a plan to open a tea house of their own. They found a small bit of land in Menemsha – their favorite spot, having sampled the ocean from Maine to Argentina – and a new love story began.

The Tea House opened in 1927 and soon expanded to serve dinners on the porch. The original menu detailed “lobster dinners complete with relishes, chowder, salad, coffee, and ice cream and cake – for $2.50.” Guests needed only to telephone Chilmark 8929-21 to let the sisters know what hour they wished to be served. 

Herbert C. Hancock, founder of the H.C. Hancock and Son building company, designed the home with its spacious living room and fieldstone fireplace that opened up to the wraparound porch and a second-floor mezzanine. The sisters slept up there, on a screened-in porch, through wind and rain. Three rooms were each equipped with a sink, vanity, and bed for lodgers. Helen, tall and loud, did the cooking; Eva, a bit shorter and quieter, made things homey. The two abided by one unbreakable rule: each morning after chores, they jumped into their bathing suits and went for a swim. 

Over time, the house was passed down through the family, where generations enjoyed it. It has always been a place of hospitality. Following its days as a tea house, the family ran it as a restaurant, then a B&B, then a private home that they occasionally rented out. Conceived with the love and care of two feisty and devoted women, the cottage has welcomed artists, journalists, fishermen, and various wanderers, and was host to a variety of summer events and celebrations. 

One summer, at the firemen’s barbecue at the Chilmark Community Center, I met local historian Harriette Poole Otteson, who told me her parents were married at The Lobster Pot eighty years ago to the day. Another summer, I met Jody Anderson and her family at the beach and invited her to come over and visit. Jody had summered in the house with her siblings and mother, Connie, for many years. At the end of every season, they each took on various maintenance chores to close up the cottage. 

Jody arrived one evening with her sister. While touring upstairs, I noticed them peering into the space over a window in one of the bedrooms. When I asked what they were looking at, they glanced at one another and giggled. They recalled how as teenagers they’d secretly smoked cigarettes in the room and hid the stubs over the window. They were looking to see if they might still be there. 

Kelly and Nicky Gaudreau, cousins of the original owners, recalled racing lobsters down the counter in the kitchen. The “handler” of the lobster that placed first won a lobster hat, a prize they could wear only until next year when once again the race was on. Every summer, on their last day of vacation, they took a photo in front of the cottage, everyone waving goodbye to The Lobster Pot.

Another neighbor recalled a summer that the home enjoyed a reputation for the risqué. The story goes that a National Geographic photographer visited with a French “woman of ill repute” who our neighbor was asked to transport to Lobsterville so she could sunbathe nude. The photographer joined her there when not busy taking photographs (or maybe while also taking photographs).  

In listening to their stories, I learned that The Lobster Pot never leaves its visitors. Whether it is home for a night or for a generation, it calls them back. That’s exactly what happened in August of 2022. That summer, Luke Liquori – the grandson of Helen Hart, who had married Douglas M. Hart, nephew of the two sisters and previous owner of the house – knocked on my porch door. 

We’d been in touch years earlier, after he contacted me to introduce himself. He described treasured memories from his eighteen summers at the cottage. He was accompanied by Jenna Walsh, who he had just proposed to that day. I invited them in and, of course, a tour ensued.  

Luke noticed the smell of the cottage was exactly the same as it was from his earliest memories. That smell brought him back to countless days doing absolutely nothing but going to the beach and sitting on the porch with family and friends. Luke shared the same birthday as his grandmother, and he recalled celebrating there together, singing and blowing out candles. I saw how special the house was to him and suggested that he and Jenna might be married here. With tears of joy and happiness, he gratefully accepted. 

That September, he returned with his mom, Nancy, and his sister, Eliza. They shared pictures of the house from the late 1920s, when summer flowers spilled from red window boxes and wicker rockers and tables invited guests to enjoy sandwiches and games of bridge. 

Nancy described how the house passed down through the family, from the two sisters to their older sister Myrtle’s son, Douglas, who had taken over the care of the house as they got older. It was then passed to Douglas’s wife, Helen Hart (Luke’s grandmother), when he died. When Helen passed away, the house was given to her children, Nancy and Marshall. At that point, Nancy wanted to buy it herself but wasn’t financially able. She feared that the larger offer they received would result in the house being torn down and rebuilt. Although she would have loved to have kept the house, Nancy wanted it to go to people who truly loved it as it was. She and her brother agreed that was us. The mystery of how our offer was accepted despite a much higher bid was solved.

After spending the afternoon together, it felt like we were all part of The Lobster Pot family. I learned that, like the home’s original owners, Nancy and her mother Helen before her were teachers. I, too, am an educator. It seemed to me as if the house conceived, owned, and nurtured by teachers had become a teacher itself – of hospitality, caregiving, and gratitude. 

The wedding was held on a beautiful day the following September with Luke and the family all staying here. Nancy wrote me afterward to thank me and described how wonderful it was to “feel the essence” of the house again. Luke also wrote to say that, though he’d spent eighteen summers at The Lobster Pot, his favorite memory was the most recent: getting married surrounded by his closest family and friends in a place that meant so much to him. 

This year marks my twentieth in The Lobster Pot. Being part of the home’s history has been transformative. Real estate is transactional, but the stories and memories created by the people who have cared for the house cannot be bought, sold, or replaced. I continue to try to channel the warm and welcoming spirit of the sisters. The lights on the porch shine brightly. They beckon travelers, old and new, to step inside and hear the many stories The Lobster Pot has to tell. 

If you have photos or stories to share about The Lobster Pot, Joani LaMachia would like to hear from you. She can be reached at [email protected].