Investment savvy as my father was, ownership of a thinly clad, weather-beaten Victorian cottage far from home was not his idea of opportunity. Better to own shares of IBM and sleep well at night. To the chagrin of myself and my mother, Daddy was satisfied to be a Vineyard summer person by way of tenancy forever.

He was especially satisfied to be a tenant of Mr. Eastman. Mr. Eastman wasn’t quite a full generation older than my father. Nevertheless, to my father, he was always “Mr. Eastman;” never “James.”

A show of respect that transcended age, for Mr. Eastman was a seasoned real estate investor from New Jersey, who owned not one but four cottages in Oak Bluffs’ Copeland District. He was arguably the closest thing to a mogul among the African-Americans who, in the post-WWII era, began to settle and revive the ghost streets with the indigenous names that curve from downtown Oak Bluffs to the beachscape along Sea View avenue.

Fast-forward 75 years or so, one of Mr. Eastman’s former houses — now dubbed The Dragonfly House — was inducted into the African-American Heritage Trail of Martha’s Vineyard this past Juneteenth weekend. I was among the attendees bearing witness from the wraparound porch. I admit my attention was divided between the inspired proceedings before me and the façade of a former bedroom behind my back. It had been the bedroom where I often slept as a vacationing teen some six decades ago — back when today’s elegant Dragonfly House was simply one of Mr. Eastman’s cottages.

And I do mean simply. Lofty and stately as it was, the antique edifice, circa 1850, was a quintessential Vineyard shack-teau from day one. When people of means didn’t intend to live on summer vacation the way they lived on, say, buttoned-up Beacon Hill. They came here to kick back, prop their feet on the porch rail and slurp littlenecks.

Over the decades, time and northeasters took their toll on this house, as they’re wont to do. That bedroom where I slept? If it rained outside from a certain angle, it rained in there too. But hey, a rescue team of parents (our vacation household typically comprised two or three families) would shove beds out of the way and set buckets and pots strategically under the drips. My buddy and I would go back to bed, giggle and resume sleep.

Making do was the old-school Vineyard vacay way. We loved it. The squeaky bed springs. The slant and creak of the pine floors. The steep and narrow staircases, scaled for little 19th-century feet. The windows with the wavy handmade panes, operated by pullies and weights. Tiptoeing through someone else’s bedroom to reach the bathroom. Was there more than one bathroom?

I scored the sleeping loft in the high tower all to myself one summer, channeling my inner Rapunzel. In the wee hours one night, a resounding thunder clap shivered the timbers so hard, this princess fled down the ladder in terror.

The black and white television broadcast three channels, featuring our choice of snow, snow or snow, no matter how we finessed the rabbit ears. Evenings were thus better devoted to board games, jigsaw puzzles or — most of all — hanging out on Circuit avenue. The everlasting teen custom is a “thing” nearly as old as this house.

We had no clue in our day that this star of the Eastman holdings was originally built for a slavery abolitionist. Yet another cred for the Heritage Trail. Nor could we have imagined its future as manifest by The Dragonfly House, a stunning upgrade by the present-day owners. They have honored the legacy even as they raised the bar.

The tower remains but the loft therein has been sacrificed for a vaulted ceiling. Rapunzel is getting over it.

Shelley Christiansen lives in Oak Bluffs.