The final room on the Edward Gorey House museum tour in Yarmouthport on Cape Cod was what Mr. Gorey referred to as the “Ball Room”, although nary a soiree was held there. 

He saw something artistic in the oddest things from those that were understandably collectable to things that only he could see the beauty in. Presently, much of what he collected has been cataloged to be thematically displayed each tourist season, but in his days things were put down somewhere and may or may not have ended up near something similar or was just one more thing in that category left haphazardly on a convenient empty place to remain there until after his death and the house was cleaned out.

The only area in the house in his day that came anywhere close to a theme had been his “Ball Room” into which he placed any ball of any size from a ball-bearing to one of those very large, woven rope balls used to keep old ship’s from knocking against the docks they were moored to that he found, purchased, or was gifted.

Since the house became a museum of his art and quirks, the room now holds some of his personal possessions and photos. Among the items were pictures of him with his nephew through the years that belie the idea that he killed the children in his stories because he hated them, a collection of his pens and sketch books and items that he always used while refusing to move up with the times like his old non-electric Royal typewriter and the rotary phone he used until his death in 2000.

When I led tours, I didn’t take up people’s time telling them about everything in every display, but, as I informed each group, would give them an idea of what each display case contained so that, once I gave them the general idea what they would be looking at, I would be set them free to wander to those things they were interested in looking at while I roamed around answering their questions based on her interests not what the docent script would limit them to. I ended my tours in the “Ball Room” where there was a station with crayons and stamps based on Gorey’s works to occupy the children while the parents took turns looking around.

Although some docents had known Edward Gorey and, so, had a deeper connect than I which resulted in a high degree of serious respect and were rather solemn in their approach, I was a little lighter, initially to the annoyance of the veteran docents, and joked with the tourists which lightened the mood and made questions easier to ask.

One day as my tour entered the “Ball Room” and I gave an all encompassing pan of the room with my hand, one child saw the rotary phone and went right to it. This happened often with many really young child seeing one for the first time and the routine that followed was a parent telling the child to dial home and merriment ensuing among everyone in the tour group as the kid would poke a finger into each hole with the correct number like pushing buttons until the parent showed how a rotary phone was dialed and why it was called dialing.

As far as the phone was concerned, the ancient Royal had its own moments, that was usually when the child would walk off to look at something not as old and, perhaps more colorful or hands on, like the stamps.

On one particular day a little boy  went to the phone and stared at it for a while until his mother, finishing what piece of art she had been looking at, walked over and did the usual phone/child routine and the child did exactly as directed to the predictable chuckles from those in the room. However, unlike the other children who would shrug and walk off, this one, seeing how long it took to dial home, asked how tough it was to get the police to come to a crime scene as it seemed to take an eternity to dial 9-1-1.

The mother, aware that a true explanation would involve a lesson on the evolution of phones from operators, to dial, to buttons, to the death of landlines, the beginning of auto-dial, and why there had been no 9-1-1 in rotary phone days, decided to go for the quick throw away and swift move on, and simply explained that in her childhood people were more relaxed, less rushed, and even someone breaking and entering your home tool it slow and meandering, choosing what they would take and the police would show up almost leisurely knowing the burglar was going to take his time as everyone back then did.

The smile of accomplishment on the face of the mother as she looked around the room expecting and getting approving smiles from the adults in the room vanished when the child asked the follow-up question about calling the fire department. The mother doubled down further explaining that it was not just people who were slower and more relaxed, but fire burned slower as well.

Satisfied that this had done the trick, as the mother slowly pushed the child ahead of her out of the “Ball Room” obviously escaping to hide that she had been bested by her child and could only offer a weak explanation, no one who remained behind heard what the child’s next question was, but the mother’s answer, which we did hear, was a defense of slow flames as we heard her say, “of course they were slower, remember a couple of years ago how long it took the house next door to burn down?”

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