Richard Zampella

Over time, I have come to understand that most things are not fully understood when they happen. They are understood later, if they are understood at all.

When I was a boy, Idylease was simply the place where I lived — the building on the hill, the long hallways, the sound of doors opening and closing, and my father moving from room to room in his white uniform.

It seemed permanent then. I did not understand that places like this survive only because someone accepts responsibility for them. My father had accepted that responsibility long before I was old enough to recognize it. At the time, I thought he was simply going to work.

Only later did I begin to understand what he had carried: a place that required care year after year, without certainty, without completion, and often without recognition. That kind of stewardship is a form of courage, though it is rarely spoken of that way.

As a boy, I planted trees on the property. At the time, it meant very little to me. Over the years, I have watched them grow, and some of them will remain long after I am gone.

I did not understand it then, but I understand it now.

We were planting time.

For many years I left, believing I would build a different life somewhere else. But some places do not leave you. They remain somewhere inside you until the day you return.

In April of 2016, I returned and assumed stewardship of Idylease. It was not something formally passed to me. In many ways, it had been waiting there all along.

Over time, I came to understand that I was not only taking care of a building, but of memory itself — the memory of my father, of the people who lived and worked here, and of all those who passed through this house over more than a century.

This site comes out of that understanding. It is not a complete record. It is only what can still be found, preserved, and shared. In time, it may offer a clearer sense of what has been here — and what remains.