He was the loveliest of men, everyone’s notion of the ideal grandfather, father or beloved uncle, and people always said of his appearance that this kindly generous and elegant man “could have been Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.’s twin brother.”

His name was Mr. Bracher, and no one ever called him anything else. Gentle and soft-spoken, he’d been a widower so long his wife was an old memory to most, but they said she’d had the beautiful name of Lily, and that when she died, he’d quietly and most unusually, had her buried in his back-yard garden, and on her grave had planted beautiful lilies in dazzling colors. The fabulous blooms were visible from the roadway, and occasionally in the summers Mr. Bracher could be seen sitting on an old grey wooden bench, staring into his lilies and smiling, his lips moving, and everyone knew he was talking to his beloved Lily, and they could see that he missed her and was loving her still.

Mr. Bracher lived in a tall, old brick house with white trim, green shutters and black roof, all angles and nooks inside, heavy drapes, massive, shiny furnishings and secret places for kids to play in and hide from each other when he invited them in for cookies and stories. The bathrooms were white tile from top to bottom and when the children went into one, they shouted short quick words to hear their voices echo, and they marveled at the old, porcelain pedestal sinks and odd, old fashioned brass faucets. The children would willingly wash their hands, because they loved to dry them on the thick, monogrammed towels hanging over heavy brass rods.

The neighborhood children were always encouraged and allowed to explore Mr. Bracher’s vast property. He owned acres of forest and had had paths cut through them which he’d dotted with log benches to rest upon, and tiny ponds in which to chase frogs and fish and turtles. And in the bend of one path, he’d built a Lilliputian village nestled in tiny mountains, with roadways and minute wooden cars and trucks, carved and painted in meticulous detail, minuscule homes, a real winding stream with waterfalls and little boats, bridges and lush green diminutive trees. The children would crowd around the village and their imaginations would flow and whirl and fly into the clouds as they played at that magical spot.

Mr. Bracher’s majestic old home stood on the top of a sharply steep lawn dotted with ancient trees, some with branches to the ground, perfect for climbing, to be Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest or Tarzan in the jungle. Several large smooth rocks jutted out from the slope like the prows of great schooners and the children would bring their play swords, red head scarves tied tightly, and makeshift eye patches. And the girls were allowed to be pirates too, although they were mostly reserved for plank walking. But all sailed Mr. Bracher’s wondrous green seven seas.

On wintry days, Mr. Bracher, dressed as if to meet with royalty, a real rose in his lapel, and with their parents’ permission, would invite the children inside after sledding down his steeply sloped lawn, and he’d feed them steaming hot chocolate and saucer sized-cookies just as he’d done with Lily before she died. And he always knew when the kids came in that there was one special thing they really wanted to see, but they understood they’d have to wait until after he’d told them his delightful stories and stuffed them with the hot, sweet liquid and piles of thick chewy cookies.

The thing they wanted to see each visit was “The Lightbulb.”

In a small closet under the long, wide staircase, used just for guests’ coats, hung a remarkable lightbulb. It was large and clear and thin carbon filaments spiked through it, and it burned so brightly it hurt the children’s eyes. It was turned on and off by a long, old brown string, a yellow glass bead tied at its end.

“Tell us,” they’d always say, when Mr. Bracher took them to see it as they were leaving, “how old is that lightbulb anyway, Mr. Bracher?”

“Why,” he’d smile down at them, “this light bulb is over 70 years old. Isn’t that remarkable? It was made nine years before I was born and was right here in this closet when we bought this old place and moved in.”

“You and who, Mr. Bracher?”

“My dear wife and I,” answered the gentle man.

“What was her name, Mr. Bracher?”

“Her name was Lily,” he smiled down at them.

“Like the flowers in your garden?”

“Yes.”

“Did she turn The Lightbulb on sometimes Mr. Bracher?”

“Yes. She did,” again smiling down at them.

“How come The Lightbulb doesn’t ever burn out, Mr. Bracher?”

“Because I guess it was a very good lightbulb when it was made, and it’s only left on for very short periods.”

The great house stood idle for years after the old man died. The children grew up, married and moved away to begin their own homes, but they always remembered the old Bracher place and smiled at the sweet memories. And finally, a man with a great deal of money bought the place and immediately had it knocked down and trucked away so he might build a huge, sprawling house on the site. He neglected the paths in the woods; the tiny village became overgrown and disappeared, and children no longer sailed the rocks and climbed the giant old trees. And the lilies all withered and died.

And when the now-grown children heard that Mr. Bracher’s magical old home had been knocked down and cleared away, they were deeply saddened and wondered if The Lightbulb had been smashed along with it.

LC Van Savage is a Brunswick resident.