April 2006..........
What was that noise? Laying in bed. It is 3:35am, I am very sleepy, but hear a familiar sound that I haven't heard for six or seven months. Tree frogs. Spring is here! It is official. When you hear the frogs, the water in the streams and rivers have risen to a temperature that allows the little froggies to start to their harmonious song. Within a few days, we should start seeing the red wing blackbirds return. Winter is over.
Later that morning, I walk out to the compost pile to turn it over. I want to be ready to feed the garden when it is time. I remember during the fall I saw a fox running back and forth to the upper barn. This fox was always carrying something in her mouth. Now I now what that was all about. Sitting outside the chicken coup are three baby foxes. Mom is laying beside them while the little kits are tumbling and playing with each other. Just like human children. All Gods' children act the same when they are babies. Undisturbed, Mama fox, (I think I will name her Peaches') watches me, but doesn't really seem bothered by my appearance. I kneel down and watch Peaches with her babies. I can't tell how many boys or girls we have, but just by their actions, I think there is two females and one male. The male seems to be tormenting the two smaller ones. We will have to wait until they are a little older.
Turning back to my chores, I decide today I will hang my sheets on the clothes lines. It is warm enough and If I get them out soon, they will dry. Getting the line back up was a small challenge and finding the clothes pins, well I found a handful. The sheets hung on the over stretched line is allowing the sheets to brush the grass. Not overly concerned I decide to go back into the house and take the curtains down to get them ready to wash. About thirty minutes into sorting the curtains, I notice a breeze and decide to check on the sheets. First I looked out the kitchen window. Funny, I swore I hung three flat sheets and six pillow cases. I only see two sheets and six pillow cases. Drying my hands, I open the screen door and notice one sheet is on the ground, but, it is moving. Two of the three little foxes are under the sheet. Peaches is standing nervously, over the sheet. I can tell she doesn't know what to do. Humm......... now what do I do? Well, I need my sheet, so I start down the lawn towards the clothes line. Peaches bolts down the hill and lays in the dried grass, left over from last year. She is panting and watches me approach the sheet and her babies. Gingerly, I lift the sheet. The cutest little foxes with the blue eyes reserved for infants of any species ,greet me. They are completely tame and trusting. For now anyway. They roll over, untangling themselves from the sheet, I see there is one female and one male. Jack and Jill quickly regain their footing and jet to join Peaches. I see the other kit sticking its' nose out from under the chicken coup. I decided the fox family have had enough excitement for the day and gather my sheets and head for the house.
Frogs and Foxes. What a wonderful day. With freshly ironed sheets on the bed, my head sinks contently into the soft down of my pillow. The frogs have started their evening serenade and a slight breeze ruffles the bottom edges of the bedroom curtains. George turns off his reading lamp and kisses me on the cheek goodnight. I missed it. I am already asleep......
Monday, January 25, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Notes from Cottage Hill Farm
March 2006........continues
It is official. The "Great Renovation" has begun. It has started with a low rumble. I hear the trucks coming. First the dumpster is driven in. Of course, the pre-arrangement to have it gently place outside the flower border, fails dramatically. I should have taken this as a sign. How naive' one can be. In one crushing blow, they are smashed, GEORGE!! What are they doing? becomes a common theme. We are suppose to live here?
"Oh, Mrs. L, Paul says, " You won't have any problem living here. The work is going to done in such a way, You will hardly notice we are here". That is of course, if you don't mind not breathing! The dust incredible. So,against my better judgement, we decide to move to the tenant farmers house. One bedroom, one bath, and the smallest kitchen known to man. I have so many boxes, we can't move. I brought too many pots and pans and kitchen paraphernalia. I can put on a five course meal, but I can't find a clean blouse.
It is freezing. I thought spring was just around the corner. Duped again. Paul, the general contractor is here. Why, do you asked. I am not sure, this is unusual. He usually calls. I open the front door: "Mrs. L", we have a problem. Can you come over to the house? "Sure". Puzzled, I slipped on my coat and Sorrel's, and follow him across the road. The first thing I see, is the crew standing around in a circle, looking intently at something. Dave is scratching his head. They all look up and let me within the circle. Seven or eight marble slabs, that used to be my walk way, are turned over. My heart stops! "Here lies Ethan Post b. 1838 d. 1859". YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!!!! All the slabs have names on them. I look at Paul and ask:"Do we have a bunch of dead people under my house?!" Well, Ma'am..... it wouldn't be THAT unusual. This is a farm and people would bury their loved ones where they lived. Ya,know, to keep them close!" I am dumb founded. This can't be happening.
After calling Constable Wharfelle, the Clerk of the County, and the Historic Society,and delay of a week, (Mrs. L, we can just keep digging' and see what we come up with). We discovered, the tomb stones, were rejects from the Proctor Marble Company.Broken or misspelled names, the tomb stones were salvaged and used for walkways and foundations,etc. Thank God! I have not slept for a week. Visions, horrible visions. You can imagine. All of them are carted off to the upper barn. We may want to reuse them. Maybe we can "freak out" the next generation.
Well, back to work. The crew is off for the weekend, so George is over at the house in full winter dress, painting clapboards inside of the house. I am so glad. I needed some peace and quiet. I am laying on the couch, watching my favorite, HGTV. After an hour or so, I hear George coming across the frozen front yard. I rise to meet him and unlock the front door. Now remember, George is a very educated man. Twelve years of college and a wonderful physician, but he is not the handiest man around. Love him to death. He was using a Salamander for heat. It is a heater that is low to the ground and uses gasoline to heat our very open house. Well, George is standing at the front door and I notice smoke rising in two columns from behind him. A strange burning smell like that of fur being "put to the flame", is also apparent. George! your boots are on fire!!!!! Apparently, George had the Salamander behind him while he is on the floor painting and he didn't notice, he had gotten a little too close. Since his boots are laced up, I grabbed a pot full on not so cold water, (it was on the stove), and poured it over his boots. Needless to say, we finally got the fire out. No harm to George. Just maybe his pride. Again, love him death.
That night, we are snug in our bed. George, is "purring quietly". I sneak out of the tenant house and make a quick dash to the farms' side door. Slipping inside,the fresh smell of paint fills the room. I decide to have a chat with Mr. Hall:"If you are around when George is over hear working, can you check on him occasionally? I would really appreciate it". I am freezing, so I tighten my collar and start to walk across the road. Stopping for a minute, I look over my shoulder. Mr. Hall waves at me from an upstairs window. Smiling and reassured, I slip back in the tenant farmers house and back into my warm bed. George is still "purring" and before you know it, so am I..........
It is official. The "Great Renovation" has begun. It has started with a low rumble. I hear the trucks coming. First the dumpster is driven in. Of course, the pre-arrangement to have it gently place outside the flower border, fails dramatically. I should have taken this as a sign. How naive' one can be. In one crushing blow, they are smashed, GEORGE!! What are they doing? becomes a common theme. We are suppose to live here?
"Oh, Mrs. L, Paul says, " You won't have any problem living here. The work is going to done in such a way, You will hardly notice we are here". That is of course, if you don't mind not breathing! The dust incredible. So,against my better judgement, we decide to move to the tenant farmers house. One bedroom, one bath, and the smallest kitchen known to man. I have so many boxes, we can't move. I brought too many pots and pans and kitchen paraphernalia. I can put on a five course meal, but I can't find a clean blouse.
It is freezing. I thought spring was just around the corner. Duped again. Paul, the general contractor is here. Why, do you asked. I am not sure, this is unusual. He usually calls. I open the front door: "Mrs. L", we have a problem. Can you come over to the house? "Sure". Puzzled, I slipped on my coat and Sorrel's, and follow him across the road. The first thing I see, is the crew standing around in a circle, looking intently at something. Dave is scratching his head. They all look up and let me within the circle. Seven or eight marble slabs, that used to be my walk way, are turned over. My heart stops! "Here lies Ethan Post b. 1838 d. 1859". YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!!!! All the slabs have names on them. I look at Paul and ask:"Do we have a bunch of dead people under my house?!" Well, Ma'am..... it wouldn't be THAT unusual. This is a farm and people would bury their loved ones where they lived. Ya,know, to keep them close!" I am dumb founded. This can't be happening.
After calling Constable Wharfelle, the Clerk of the County, and the Historic Society,and delay of a week, (Mrs. L, we can just keep digging' and see what we come up with). We discovered, the tomb stones, were rejects from the Proctor Marble Company.Broken or misspelled names, the tomb stones were salvaged and used for walkways and foundations,etc. Thank God! I have not slept for a week. Visions, horrible visions. You can imagine. All of them are carted off to the upper barn. We may want to reuse them. Maybe we can "freak out" the next generation.
Well, back to work. The crew is off for the weekend, so George is over at the house in full winter dress, painting clapboards inside of the house. I am so glad. I needed some peace and quiet. I am laying on the couch, watching my favorite, HGTV. After an hour or so, I hear George coming across the frozen front yard. I rise to meet him and unlock the front door. Now remember, George is a very educated man. Twelve years of college and a wonderful physician, but he is not the handiest man around. Love him to death. He was using a Salamander for heat. It is a heater that is low to the ground and uses gasoline to heat our very open house. Well, George is standing at the front door and I notice smoke rising in two columns from behind him. A strange burning smell like that of fur being "put to the flame", is also apparent. George! your boots are on fire!!!!! Apparently, George had the Salamander behind him while he is on the floor painting and he didn't notice, he had gotten a little too close. Since his boots are laced up, I grabbed a pot full on not so cold water, (it was on the stove), and poured it over his boots. Needless to say, we finally got the fire out. No harm to George. Just maybe his pride. Again, love him death.
That night, we are snug in our bed. George, is "purring quietly". I sneak out of the tenant house and make a quick dash to the farms' side door. Slipping inside,the fresh smell of paint fills the room. I decide to have a chat with Mr. Hall:"If you are around when George is over hear working, can you check on him occasionally? I would really appreciate it". I am freezing, so I tighten my collar and start to walk across the road. Stopping for a minute, I look over my shoulder. Mr. Hall waves at me from an upstairs window. Smiling and reassured, I slip back in the tenant farmers house and back into my warm bed. George is still "purring" and before you know it, so am I..........
Thursday, January 14, 2010
April 2006 ..........
It is lovely today! In the mid forties, life is starting to return to Cottage Hill Farm. You can actually smell the earth warming and thawing.You can feel the heat and steam (Well, maybe not steam) rising in the areas exposed to the sun. In a couple of weeks we will enter the "mud season". Truly, in Vermont we have a mud season. Thick and sticky, Sorta like a chocolate mousse. It is the best planting medium. Vermonts' growing season is short, but vigorous. You can also almost "hear" plants growing. "Stretch......!the little leaves are unfolding, opening to lift their little young faces to the "Sun God". New plants are replacing old ones. Unknown species are peeking through the old standards: Hollyhock, blackeyed susans, columbine. They are not really visible yet, But, I know they're there, just waiting to spring back to life. Right now they're covered in last years dressing. Like a snake shedding its' skin, or an old dress being replace with the latest fashion, my day lillies are starting the race first.
Spring is not here until you see the red wing black birds. They travel in "packs" and arrive in the hundreds! Noisy little buggers, they are a welcome site and thus, it is "official". Spring is here!
I am itching to get my hands dirty. A six month winter, does that to you. Getting started cleaning up last years spent leaves is first. Gathering up the "loppers", rakes and hand sheers I am now armed and poised for battle. Let the battle begin.
As I begin I notice a small red squirrel. She is now has a "handle". I will call her Delihla. Red squirrels can be a bothersome creature, but now she seems harmless. She regards my work. I regard her. She darts back and forth. Up and down the elm tree. The only one left of this road. Dutch elm disease leveled them all decades ago. I will monitor her behavior. If she remains "lady like" I will leave her alone.
Mrs. Hall is here. She is supervising me. Her hair is piled on top of her head, whisps of silver have replaced the gold. Her skin is tanned and wrinkled from years in the sun and work in the fields. Her friendly disposition hides the pain of her loss. Beth was "taken to God" during the winter of 1846. The influenza outbreak took many during that year. Beth was three. It was quick. Too quick. There was no time say good bye. Within two days it was over. But not for Mrs. Hall. She took to her bed for a week. The other farmers wives brought food and held her when she cried. They washed and brushed her waist length hair that was then gold. It reflected her european heritage. Sometime there was no need to talk. They had lost love ones, too. They were part of a sorority. A very sad sorority. One you didn't want to belong to.
Mrs. Hall points to the purple "balloon" plants that she planted years ago. She tells me: "I carried the seeds in my carpet bag. It tooks us three months to get here from Britain. I was pregnant with my first son then. The morning sickness wasn't as bad as the sea sickness. The ship rolled constantly and it took me a good two weeks to get my "land legs" back. Her eyes cleared, returning her to the present.I had hopes these seeds would sprout. I had my doubts, but they're tough, like me. She gives me a "wink".
Returning to my reality, I work until the sun starts to go behind "Mr.Big", the pine tree. Delihla, the red squirrel, darts up his trunk and rolls into a little fur ball. Leaving one eye open, she says, "Good Night".
Going in the house, I say goodnight to Mrs.Hall and promise to join her in the morning. Time for a bath......
It is lovely today! In the mid forties, life is starting to return to Cottage Hill Farm. You can actually smell the earth warming and thawing.You can feel the heat and steam (Well, maybe not steam) rising in the areas exposed to the sun. In a couple of weeks we will enter the "mud season". Truly, in Vermont we have a mud season. Thick and sticky, Sorta like a chocolate mousse. It is the best planting medium. Vermonts' growing season is short, but vigorous. You can also almost "hear" plants growing. "Stretch......!the little leaves are unfolding, opening to lift their little young faces to the "Sun God". New plants are replacing old ones. Unknown species are peeking through the old standards: Hollyhock, blackeyed susans, columbine. They are not really visible yet, But, I know they're there, just waiting to spring back to life. Right now they're covered in last years dressing. Like a snake shedding its' skin, or an old dress being replace with the latest fashion, my day lillies are starting the race first.
Spring is not here until you see the red wing black birds. They travel in "packs" and arrive in the hundreds! Noisy little buggers, they are a welcome site and thus, it is "official". Spring is here!
I am itching to get my hands dirty. A six month winter, does that to you. Getting started cleaning up last years spent leaves is first. Gathering up the "loppers", rakes and hand sheers I am now armed and poised for battle. Let the battle begin.
As I begin I notice a small red squirrel. She is now has a "handle". I will call her Delihla. Red squirrels can be a bothersome creature, but now she seems harmless. She regards my work. I regard her. She darts back and forth. Up and down the elm tree. The only one left of this road. Dutch elm disease leveled them all decades ago. I will monitor her behavior. If she remains "lady like" I will leave her alone.
Mrs. Hall is here. She is supervising me. Her hair is piled on top of her head, whisps of silver have replaced the gold. Her skin is tanned and wrinkled from years in the sun and work in the fields. Her friendly disposition hides the pain of her loss. Beth was "taken to God" during the winter of 1846. The influenza outbreak took many during that year. Beth was three. It was quick. Too quick. There was no time say good bye. Within two days it was over. But not for Mrs. Hall. She took to her bed for a week. The other farmers wives brought food and held her when she cried. They washed and brushed her waist length hair that was then gold. It reflected her european heritage. Sometime there was no need to talk. They had lost love ones, too. They were part of a sorority. A very sad sorority. One you didn't want to belong to.
Mrs. Hall points to the purple "balloon" plants that she planted years ago. She tells me: "I carried the seeds in my carpet bag. It tooks us three months to get here from Britain. I was pregnant with my first son then. The morning sickness wasn't as bad as the sea sickness. The ship rolled constantly and it took me a good two weeks to get my "land legs" back. Her eyes cleared, returning her to the present.I had hopes these seeds would sprout. I had my doubts, but they're tough, like me. She gives me a "wink".
Returning to my reality, I work until the sun starts to go behind "Mr.Big", the pine tree. Delihla, the red squirrel, darts up his trunk and rolls into a little fur ball. Leaving one eye open, she says, "Good Night".
Going in the house, I say goodnight to Mrs.Hall and promise to join her in the morning. Time for a bath......
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Notes from Cottage Hill Farm
March 2006 continues....
It is the end of March. Whew! I am getting a little ahead of myself. We can't plant until after Mothers Day. Heck, the ground will probably still be frozen.
We are having light flurries today. The snowflakes are like little fairies being carried off by the updrafts from the wind. The "snow fairies" like to perch on your eyelashes. They are only there for a brief moment. One gentle kiss and there gone.
I decided to head to the upper barn today and go through the loose barn boards we plan on using for the new kitchen floor. Opening the hay door, a tiny field mouse is startled and skurries to her nest. A flat stone serves as her home for her and her young. You can see her numerous feet prints around the front entrance to her home. Her coloring is that of a doe. Little pink hands were stuffing her cheeks with feed grain from the silo just seconds before I opened the door.
I imagine, "Imogene" in her little white apron, running into her cave, instructing her three "little ones", to be still. The farmers' wife is here! After a while, she realizes that no one is going to disturb their peace. She instructs Lilly, Rose, and Jake to make quick work in setting the table for dinner. The sun is dropping below the roof line, which means "soon to bed".
Buzz, the brown bat is hanging overhead from the ridgebeam. He yawns broadly and is slightly confused with all the commotion on the barn floor. He quickly regains his composure and yells down to Imogene to "keep it down, we're sleeping up here". Non-plused, Imogene rattles off "cousin, we go through this every evening". Give us another thirty minutes, and my family will be asleep.
I turn my attention back to the barn boards. Some of the boards are 24 inches wide or more. Dark, dusty and covered in remnants of hay, I scratched their surface to reveal their species. Soft pine. Their fragrance betrays them. The largest board would have been perfect, but reveals not so subtle waves. I am sure there is a slight knowing smile from the board. Betrayed, I lay him back down and continue looking.
Dusting off my clothes, I decide to change my direction. Bored with boards, (ha,ha) I pick up an old scythe. How many hands have held this over the years? Too many to count. The sun is brutal. The humidity equals the heat. Dust. Blisters and sweat, not perspiration, sweat stings the eyes. His wife brings his lunch wrapped in a gingham napkin. Just bread and a large chunk of cheese accompanied by a radish or two. The mason jar is filled with half tea and half lemonaide. The jar is quart size and instantly drained by the man with the scythe in his hand.
Cutting hay by hand. The space between the rubble stone foundation that holds up the barn needs to be short. Very short. A brush fire would take the barns life in minutes. Mr. Hall sits and rests. Laying against the cool stone, he wipes his brow with the gingham cloth his wife had wrapped his lunch in. Closing his eyes, he doesn't even notice Imogene and her babies stealing the crumbs left just northeast of his scythe.
Coming to my senses, I hear my wonderful husband, George, pull in the drive. Time for our dinner....
It is the end of March. Whew! I am getting a little ahead of myself. We can't plant until after Mothers Day. Heck, the ground will probably still be frozen.
We are having light flurries today. The snowflakes are like little fairies being carried off by the updrafts from the wind. The "snow fairies" like to perch on your eyelashes. They are only there for a brief moment. One gentle kiss and there gone.
I decided to head to the upper barn today and go through the loose barn boards we plan on using for the new kitchen floor. Opening the hay door, a tiny field mouse is startled and skurries to her nest. A flat stone serves as her home for her and her young. You can see her numerous feet prints around the front entrance to her home. Her coloring is that of a doe. Little pink hands were stuffing her cheeks with feed grain from the silo just seconds before I opened the door.
I imagine, "Imogene" in her little white apron, running into her cave, instructing her three "little ones", to be still. The farmers' wife is here! After a while, she realizes that no one is going to disturb their peace. She instructs Lilly, Rose, and Jake to make quick work in setting the table for dinner. The sun is dropping below the roof line, which means "soon to bed".
Buzz, the brown bat is hanging overhead from the ridgebeam. He yawns broadly and is slightly confused with all the commotion on the barn floor. He quickly regains his composure and yells down to Imogene to "keep it down, we're sleeping up here". Non-plused, Imogene rattles off "cousin, we go through this every evening". Give us another thirty minutes, and my family will be asleep.
I turn my attention back to the barn boards. Some of the boards are 24 inches wide or more. Dark, dusty and covered in remnants of hay, I scratched their surface to reveal their species. Soft pine. Their fragrance betrays them. The largest board would have been perfect, but reveals not so subtle waves. I am sure there is a slight knowing smile from the board. Betrayed, I lay him back down and continue looking.
Dusting off my clothes, I decide to change my direction. Bored with boards, (ha,ha) I pick up an old scythe. How many hands have held this over the years? Too many to count. The sun is brutal. The humidity equals the heat. Dust. Blisters and sweat, not perspiration, sweat stings the eyes. His wife brings his lunch wrapped in a gingham napkin. Just bread and a large chunk of cheese accompanied by a radish or two. The mason jar is filled with half tea and half lemonaide. The jar is quart size and instantly drained by the man with the scythe in his hand.
Cutting hay by hand. The space between the rubble stone foundation that holds up the barn needs to be short. Very short. A brush fire would take the barns life in minutes. Mr. Hall sits and rests. Laying against the cool stone, he wipes his brow with the gingham cloth his wife had wrapped his lunch in. Closing his eyes, he doesn't even notice Imogene and her babies stealing the crumbs left just northeast of his scythe.
Coming to my senses, I hear my wonderful husband, George, pull in the drive. Time for our dinner....
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Notes from Cottage Hill Farm
March 2006 continues....
It is "threatening" to show signs of the upcoming spring. I won't get my hopes up, but the crocus are just starting to poke their heads up. I'm sure they are hesitant as well.
Today I thought I would start a little "Spring" cleaning. You know, pull furniture from against the walls and clean the baseboards,etc. Having a woodburning stove and exposed wooden beams lends itself to constant vacuuming and dusting. But, that's living in a two hundred year old house. I decide to go to the attic first and sweep.
Cottage Hill Farm, as I have mentioned, is old. The original structure was just "two over two" with a center hall way, that is 2 rooms down and 2 rooms up. The attic runs the entire length of the house, with chimneys at both ends. The two oldest in the house. The bricks are now crumbling. The spine of the chimineys'are crooked. They look like old women leaning upon their canes. They notice me. But,barely. Their wise eyes have seen generations of children playing under their gaze. Laughter filled this space. Remnants of card games are stuck in between their bricks. News papers heralding "One small step for man", poke from one chimneys feet. The skeleton of the house: Old hand hewn beams and buttresses marked years and years ago by a long forgotton artisan. Roman numerals mark where one limb is joined to another with wooden pegs. Not a nail in sight. The attic breathes. It has to or perish. The constant creaking is evidence of that. Noisy, but reassuring at the same time.
Ancient tool marks. This art form extinct. Never to be resurrected.
The slate shingles on the roof hide the bats during the summer season. At sunset, they fly erratically looking for the 1,000 insects that each bat will devour each night. During the "cold" season, they over winter in local caves that are hidden in the Green Mountains. They are an important part of the ecosystem and are "somewhat" protected. The common brown bat. This leads me to our first encounter with "Buzz" our bat.
George and I have matching sofas' that face the television. We love laying on them, with the woodburning stove crackling softly in the background. This particular evening, we were watching "Idol", one of our favorite shows. All of a sudden, this brown, very fast "very large" insect is flying in circles and doing an amazing job of not hitting anything. I scream, while diving over the couch: "A BAT!!!!!". George, being very level headed, (most of the time), was screaming louder than I was. So, I suggested we "come down", and figure out what to do. George, now armed with leather gloves, a heavy coat and a very large fishing net, (and did I mention the goggles?) Was primed to fight. "Buzz" was located hanging upside down, next to the hearth. Fearing George would be bitten or worse, me. We decided to call the Country Gentleman, Baird. Within five minutes he was at the front door. Wearing just a winter coat,(Where was his camo? and death ray?). He calmly opens the sliding glass door and gently escorts "Buzz" outside with a gentle push of his hand. We felt riduculous, of course. Baird mentions this happens every spring. They are adolescents and get a little confused. You'll get used to them.
Another day in the life of a city girl in the country. The animals of Cottage Hill Farm talk about me. I am sure of it. I'm sure they laugh while sitting around their camp fire. I can imagine them standing in front of the windows during the long winters night shaking their heads, wondering what am I thinking? and when is she leaving? I vow to stand my ground. I will not leave. I am here for good. Kinda, like a marriage:"for better or worse".
It is "threatening" to show signs of the upcoming spring. I won't get my hopes up, but the crocus are just starting to poke their heads up. I'm sure they are hesitant as well.
Today I thought I would start a little "Spring" cleaning. You know, pull furniture from against the walls and clean the baseboards,etc. Having a woodburning stove and exposed wooden beams lends itself to constant vacuuming and dusting. But, that's living in a two hundred year old house. I decide to go to the attic first and sweep.
Cottage Hill Farm, as I have mentioned, is old. The original structure was just "two over two" with a center hall way, that is 2 rooms down and 2 rooms up. The attic runs the entire length of the house, with chimneys at both ends. The two oldest in the house. The bricks are now crumbling. The spine of the chimineys'are crooked. They look like old women leaning upon their canes. They notice me. But,barely. Their wise eyes have seen generations of children playing under their gaze. Laughter filled this space. Remnants of card games are stuck in between their bricks. News papers heralding "One small step for man", poke from one chimneys feet. The skeleton of the house: Old hand hewn beams and buttresses marked years and years ago by a long forgotton artisan. Roman numerals mark where one limb is joined to another with wooden pegs. Not a nail in sight. The attic breathes. It has to or perish. The constant creaking is evidence of that. Noisy, but reassuring at the same time.
Ancient tool marks. This art form extinct. Never to be resurrected.
The slate shingles on the roof hide the bats during the summer season. At sunset, they fly erratically looking for the 1,000 insects that each bat will devour each night. During the "cold" season, they over winter in local caves that are hidden in the Green Mountains. They are an important part of the ecosystem and are "somewhat" protected. The common brown bat. This leads me to our first encounter with "Buzz" our bat.
George and I have matching sofas' that face the television. We love laying on them, with the woodburning stove crackling softly in the background. This particular evening, we were watching "Idol", one of our favorite shows. All of a sudden, this brown, very fast "very large" insect is flying in circles and doing an amazing job of not hitting anything. I scream, while diving over the couch: "A BAT!!!!!". George, being very level headed, (most of the time), was screaming louder than I was. So, I suggested we "come down", and figure out what to do. George, now armed with leather gloves, a heavy coat and a very large fishing net, (and did I mention the goggles?) Was primed to fight. "Buzz" was located hanging upside down, next to the hearth. Fearing George would be bitten or worse, me. We decided to call the Country Gentleman, Baird. Within five minutes he was at the front door. Wearing just a winter coat,(Where was his camo? and death ray?). He calmly opens the sliding glass door and gently escorts "Buzz" outside with a gentle push of his hand. We felt riduculous, of course. Baird mentions this happens every spring. They are adolescents and get a little confused. You'll get used to them.
Another day in the life of a city girl in the country. The animals of Cottage Hill Farm talk about me. I am sure of it. I'm sure they laugh while sitting around their camp fire. I can imagine them standing in front of the windows during the long winters night shaking their heads, wondering what am I thinking? and when is she leaving? I vow to stand my ground. I will not leave. I am here for good. Kinda, like a marriage:"for better or worse".
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Notes from Cottage Hill Farm
March 2006......
It is snowing like crazy this morning! I can't even see the VERY large pine tree in front of the upper barn. "Mr.Big" stand guards over the barn and serves as my sentinel. He warns me of upcoming windstorms and "whistles" gleefully, when the summer winds blow across the top of the barn. Mr.Big, as I call him, has tolerated alot.From his scars and missing limbs, he has put up with the children of Cottage Hill Farm. He rises 30 to 40 ft, sharing space with the silo. One day, while gathering pine cones from under his large heavy limbs,I find a little metal toy truck. It appears he has shared space with MANY generations of the farms children. Picking up the pine cones, I also find a few more things to put in my "stash" Mr. Big has yielded a treasure trove of little gifts from over the years: marbles, toy cars, an old ink bottle filled with tiny little beads from an old doll dress. A silver spoon, certainly taken from the old kitchen. I can see a large string of Christmas lights curling around his trunk. The Christmas lights go half way up the old man. I guess he out grew that phase of his life, because I am sure that was when he was a much younger and carefree tree. But, I bet it was beautiful when he was lit up!
Mr.Big groans alot, too. At night, lying in my bed, you can hear him protest under the weight of the snow on his boughs. Suddenly, the sound of the heavy snow is shook off. One more groan and the he frees himself and like a dog, shaking off water from the water hose, he settles back into shape and except for an occasional rustle, he quiets down and lets' everyone go to sleep.
Every part of Cottage Hill Farm is known to me. Everything here, from Mr. Big to the old hay rakes in the barn have a personality and life. They tell stories and share secrets. We are kindred spirits. The things of Cottage Hill Farm will live on long after I am gone. But, no matter, we know we were here. Just look under the "pine tree". He'll know....
It is snowing like crazy this morning! I can't even see the VERY large pine tree in front of the upper barn. "Mr.Big" stand guards over the barn and serves as my sentinel. He warns me of upcoming windstorms and "whistles" gleefully, when the summer winds blow across the top of the barn. Mr.Big, as I call him, has tolerated alot.From his scars and missing limbs, he has put up with the children of Cottage Hill Farm. He rises 30 to 40 ft, sharing space with the silo. One day, while gathering pine cones from under his large heavy limbs,I find a little metal toy truck. It appears he has shared space with MANY generations of the farms children. Picking up the pine cones, I also find a few more things to put in my "stash" Mr. Big has yielded a treasure trove of little gifts from over the years: marbles, toy cars, an old ink bottle filled with tiny little beads from an old doll dress. A silver spoon, certainly taken from the old kitchen. I can see a large string of Christmas lights curling around his trunk. The Christmas lights go half way up the old man. I guess he out grew that phase of his life, because I am sure that was when he was a much younger and carefree tree. But, I bet it was beautiful when he was lit up!
Mr.Big groans alot, too. At night, lying in my bed, you can hear him protest under the weight of the snow on his boughs. Suddenly, the sound of the heavy snow is shook off. One more groan and the he frees himself and like a dog, shaking off water from the water hose, he settles back into shape and except for an occasional rustle, he quiets down and lets' everyone go to sleep.
Every part of Cottage Hill Farm is known to me. Everything here, from Mr. Big to the old hay rakes in the barn have a personality and life. They tell stories and share secrets. We are kindred spirits. The things of Cottage Hill Farm will live on long after I am gone. But, no matter, we know we were here. Just look under the "pine tree". He'll know....
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Notes from Cottage Hill Farm
February 2005...continues
Looking out the sliding glass doors early this morning. For some reason, the Harveys' have moved the cows from their pasture to the adjacent farm next to ours. I think safety in numbers. We have had problems with the coytoes, lately. They scare the cows and they "stampede". Well, "stampede" is kinda a strong term. A power walk is more like it.
I decide to go to the lower embankment barn this morning to see what I can find. A scavenger hunt! Dressed in several layers, I make my way. Its' quiet. The wind is hollowing, but tired of being stuck in the house I decide to go anyway. The old barn door is about fifteen feet high and complains loudly when I swing him open. (Apparently he was sleeping). I am startled and surprised, when a flock of pigeons immediately "poop" on my head. I guess I bothered them as well. Old hay covers the main room of the barn, along with, what looks like quite of bit of animal droppings. It is kind of magical in here. A little bit of dust is kicked up as I poke around looking for "relics". Two large hay racks, a wagon wheel and old bridle lie on the floor. I don't see anything I can drag back on my own.
I decide to sit on the an old beam and just sit and take it all in. Laying my head back with my arms across my chest, I quickly fall asleep. (These early country mornings are killing me!) A hint of a cold breeze passes across my cheek and reminds me it might be better if I nap back at the house. With my eyes still closed, I hear a soft shuffling sound. My heart picks up its' rythm while I sit VERY still. slowly opening my eyes (slowley? why? I have no idea). I see a coyote poking its' nose around my feet. Oh, dear God. I am not meant to handle these encounters. I guess she didn't know I was alive and breathing and I am sure I am going to be attacked. (Poor cows.I feel their pain.) "She" then lifts her leg and pees all over my leg and then just trots off squeezing under the end of the barn.
I sat for awhile, making sure "he" was no longer skulking around. I start to climb back up the embankment toward the farmhouse. For some reason this is a little for difficult. Up to my knees in snow it took me 30 minutes going up, which orginally took 5 minutes going down. Oh well. I have survived. I am not bitten. quite smelly, however.What did that coyote eat? Compost?
I'm back in the house. Stripping off my clothes in the mud room I run to a hot shower. Wrapped in a warm fluffy bathrobe and my hair in a towel, I lay my head back and cross my arms across my chest. Safely, asleep.....
Looking out the sliding glass doors early this morning. For some reason, the Harveys' have moved the cows from their pasture to the adjacent farm next to ours. I think safety in numbers. We have had problems with the coytoes, lately. They scare the cows and they "stampede". Well, "stampede" is kinda a strong term. A power walk is more like it.
I decide to go to the lower embankment barn this morning to see what I can find. A scavenger hunt! Dressed in several layers, I make my way. Its' quiet. The wind is hollowing, but tired of being stuck in the house I decide to go anyway. The old barn door is about fifteen feet high and complains loudly when I swing him open. (Apparently he was sleeping). I am startled and surprised, when a flock of pigeons immediately "poop" on my head. I guess I bothered them as well. Old hay covers the main room of the barn, along with, what looks like quite of bit of animal droppings. It is kind of magical in here. A little bit of dust is kicked up as I poke around looking for "relics". Two large hay racks, a wagon wheel and old bridle lie on the floor. I don't see anything I can drag back on my own.
I decide to sit on the an old beam and just sit and take it all in. Laying my head back with my arms across my chest, I quickly fall asleep. (These early country mornings are killing me!) A hint of a cold breeze passes across my cheek and reminds me it might be better if I nap back at the house. With my eyes still closed, I hear a soft shuffling sound. My heart picks up its' rythm while I sit VERY still. slowly opening my eyes (slowley? why? I have no idea). I see a coyote poking its' nose around my feet. Oh, dear God. I am not meant to handle these encounters. I guess she didn't know I was alive and breathing and I am sure I am going to be attacked. (Poor cows.I feel their pain.) "She" then lifts her leg and pees all over my leg and then just trots off squeezing under the end of the barn.
I sat for awhile, making sure "he" was no longer skulking around. I start to climb back up the embankment toward the farmhouse. For some reason this is a little for difficult. Up to my knees in snow it took me 30 minutes going up, which orginally took 5 minutes going down. Oh well. I have survived. I am not bitten. quite smelly, however.What did that coyote eat? Compost?
I'm back in the house. Stripping off my clothes in the mud room I run to a hot shower. Wrapped in a warm fluffy bathrobe and my hair in a towel, I lay my head back and cross my arms across my chest. Safely, asleep.....
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Notes from Cottage Hill Farm
February 2006......
January has come and gone. Unpacking is completed;(I hope I don't find anymore boxes). Things are in their place. Pictures are hung and the plaster in the living room has been repaired;(poor George). Things are going well.
Today, I filled the bird feeders and actually held a dish in my hand with seed, while the chickadees helped themselves. Amazing! How do those tooth pick size bones hold them upright? A small wonder. I notice a female fox going back and forth from the lower embankment barn to the barn next to the house. She always has something in her mouth. Wonder what that's all about? In about two months' that question gets answered.
I think because I promised to take care of the "yellow lady"; (the farm) she continues to give me little gifts. Today I found an old wire rug beater. It was hanging in the basement. I wonder how long that has been there? Next to the soapstone sink were a pair of ladies garters. Hung to dry so many decades ago, falling apart now. Who wore these? It is like being connected to a person through the objects they left behind. What will someone find of mine many years from now?
Today, George and I decide to go cross-country skiing with another couple. George tells me it is only a couple of miles, which turns into four. This is my first time, so getting used to the skis I fall alot! Embarrassed, tired and a little pissed off, we truge back home. Going into the basement to take my skis down, I noticed something shiny on a small shelf over my head. It's a little brooch, not a half and inch long and wide. Probably from the twenties or thirties. I start to smile. I feel the tirdness and frustration of the day melt away. I am sure "she" has left me another little gift, saying:"Welcome home. You think you have it tough! I would have milked four cows, got breakfast and mended 5 pair of pants before 9:00am. Get a life!" She is right. I have nothing to complain about...At least tonight. But thats' another story......
January has come and gone. Unpacking is completed;(I hope I don't find anymore boxes). Things are in their place. Pictures are hung and the plaster in the living room has been repaired;(poor George). Things are going well.
Today, I filled the bird feeders and actually held a dish in my hand with seed, while the chickadees helped themselves. Amazing! How do those tooth pick size bones hold them upright? A small wonder. I notice a female fox going back and forth from the lower embankment barn to the barn next to the house. She always has something in her mouth. Wonder what that's all about? In about two months' that question gets answered.
I think because I promised to take care of the "yellow lady"; (the farm) she continues to give me little gifts. Today I found an old wire rug beater. It was hanging in the basement. I wonder how long that has been there? Next to the soapstone sink were a pair of ladies garters. Hung to dry so many decades ago, falling apart now. Who wore these? It is like being connected to a person through the objects they left behind. What will someone find of mine many years from now?
Today, George and I decide to go cross-country skiing with another couple. George tells me it is only a couple of miles, which turns into four. This is my first time, so getting used to the skis I fall alot! Embarrassed, tired and a little pissed off, we truge back home. Going into the basement to take my skis down, I noticed something shiny on a small shelf over my head. It's a little brooch, not a half and inch long and wide. Probably from the twenties or thirties. I start to smile. I feel the tirdness and frustration of the day melt away. I am sure "she" has left me another little gift, saying:"Welcome home. You think you have it tough! I would have milked four cows, got breakfast and mended 5 pair of pants before 9:00am. Get a life!" She is right. I have nothing to complain about...At least tonight. But thats' another story......
Monday, January 4, 2010
Notes from Cottage Hill Farm
January 05 continued....
Its' a beautiful sunny day. My goal was to finish unpacking the many boxes still stacked in the mud room. I am certain the movers have made a mistake.This could not be all ours.Somethings I don't even recognize, others I forgot I had.
As I mentioned it's a beautiful, sunny day. Something we haven't seen in a couple of weeks. Taking a break from unpacking, I decide to take advantage of the sunlight and clean the sliding glass doors. All of a sudden, the biggest "rat" I have ever seen is leaning on the glass peering into the room at me! I am sure this rodent is capable of chewing through the door seeing the size of his teeth.Not knowing what to do I phone Baird our country gentleman, from across the road. Within seconds, he appears with a club and mace. Baird inquires to the where abouts of "the largest rat known to man". Escorting him to the family room and the sliding glass door, Baird breaks out into a very disturbing laugh.."LaVerne, my dear.That is not a rat.That is what is known as a ground hog.He is after your bird feeders". My first response what the heck is a ground hog, are they carniverous and do they ever get in the house. Still laughing, Baird states,"not usually". I will bring over a "Have a Heart" trap and we will move him across Otter Creek. By tomorrow you'll be safe.
That night, while in bed, I hear the this continuous scratching. Putting on my bathrobe and grabbing a flashlight, I head for downstairs to investigate. It can't be "we" have trapped something? Peering through the window, I notice something black with white spots. It must be a poor cat, trapped in the jaws of the "Have a Heart" trap. All I could see was black and white fur.
Reassured, that it wasn't a skunk (skunks have white strips, not dots!) I crept slowly to set this poor animal free..
After sitting in the shower for forty-five minutes, (yes, the plumbing does work) and going through a bottle of shampoo, I resorted to a bottle of vinegar to remove the stench.
Baird? Does Vermont have skunks with spots? "Well yes, why?" Nothing. I guess we caught a skunk last night. Well, I let him out and he wasn't very friendly. I didn't mention the shower.
Its' a beautiful sunny day. My goal was to finish unpacking the many boxes still stacked in the mud room. I am certain the movers have made a mistake.This could not be all ours.Somethings I don't even recognize, others I forgot I had.
As I mentioned it's a beautiful, sunny day. Something we haven't seen in a couple of weeks. Taking a break from unpacking, I decide to take advantage of the sunlight and clean the sliding glass doors. All of a sudden, the biggest "rat" I have ever seen is leaning on the glass peering into the room at me! I am sure this rodent is capable of chewing through the door seeing the size of his teeth.Not knowing what to do I phone Baird our country gentleman, from across the road. Within seconds, he appears with a club and mace. Baird inquires to the where abouts of "the largest rat known to man". Escorting him to the family room and the sliding glass door, Baird breaks out into a very disturbing laugh.."LaVerne, my dear.That is not a rat.That is what is known as a ground hog.He is after your bird feeders". My first response what the heck is a ground hog, are they carniverous and do they ever get in the house. Still laughing, Baird states,"not usually". I will bring over a "Have a Heart" trap and we will move him across Otter Creek. By tomorrow you'll be safe.
That night, while in bed, I hear the this continuous scratching. Putting on my bathrobe and grabbing a flashlight, I head for downstairs to investigate. It can't be "we" have trapped something? Peering through the window, I notice something black with white spots. It must be a poor cat, trapped in the jaws of the "Have a Heart" trap. All I could see was black and white fur.
Reassured, that it wasn't a skunk (skunks have white strips, not dots!) I crept slowly to set this poor animal free..
After sitting in the shower for forty-five minutes, (yes, the plumbing does work) and going through a bottle of shampoo, I resorted to a bottle of vinegar to remove the stench.
Baird? Does Vermont have skunks with spots? "Well yes, why?" Nothing. I guess we caught a skunk last night. Well, I let him out and he wasn't very friendly. I didn't mention the shower.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Notes from Cottage Hill Farm
Hello Friends,
I wanted to start this new year by telling you my story and the story of "Cottage Hill Farm".This will be a series of "Notes from Cottage Hill Farm....
What do you say about a house, a farm that has brought you so much joy and comfort for 10 years, now? When I first saw "her" she was old and tired.She had vines growing in her windows and paint peeling off her 200 year old frame,but to me she was beautiful.
Cottage Hill Farm was built in 1795 by David Hall, a planter, sheeperder and local statesman.She has seen births, deaths, indian attacks and fires and survived them all.
January 2005.....
I have always been a city girl, so coming to the rural countryside was going to be a challenge.That first winter was brutal.
One day while unpacking, I noticed, in the corner of the living room, pieces of paper sticking out of the wall. Not knowing any better at the time, I started to pull them out.Within an hour, I had removed "Vermont insulation".Old newspapers placed there over the years to fill in the cracks within the plaster where the walls met. The sun light started creeping in from behind the walls, followed by a cold blast of arctic air.Needless to say, George,(thats' my Husband) was not pleased.After a long night at the hospital (He's a doctor).He spent six hours filling in the holes I created, using joint compound. I did provide hot coffee that didn't seem to compensate.Especially when we went to bed that night,it was so cold, we could see our breath.
Five thirty in the morning came way too soon. Our bedroom was freezing .So, the thought of a nice hot shower was going to lift my spirits and enable me to get breakfast and make amends for,
"destroying the walls" the day before.
As I stood there, the only thing coming out of the shower head was a terrible "banging" noise and air. George, in his underwear and sorel boots,(cute, huh!) dragged his cold and tired body to the basement where the boiler is. Of course I followed him, giving moral support for what lie ahead. The full english basement, was an ice skating rink! Three inches of ice from a broken water pipe water had been running all night. No running water in the house, but plenty in the basement.
The "plumber" and local golf pro, only took two days to find the "problem". The "problem" was only going to cost "around" ten to twenty thousand dollars to fix. It was a complete replacement of plumbing, heating, defrosting the basement.
That week I spent at "the mall". Five stores, which anchor stores are, K-Mart and Sears. I cried that day. Alot. I was being thrown into a maelstrom.
I hated that house.I hated Vermont.Especially the plumber/golf-pro. I hated living at the mall, just to stay warm while, God knows what was going on at the farm. I decided to go and "check in", just in case, the plumbing crew was ahead of schedule. When I arrived, the first thing I noticed was a strong smell of kerosene filling the entire ground floor of the house.
Entering the basement, I noticed a large oil drum (who could miss it?) in the center of the room stuffed with scrap wood and old newspapers. You guessed it. The newspapers from the walls. Music was provided by "Hank Williams". lunch:"Kamudas' General store and post office." I was in hell. At least purgatory. Burney, plumber/golf-pro, told me:"It might take a little longer than he first thought. It seems, a family of bats had decided to inhabit the boiler.The game warden would have to be called because you know "Mssssssss Lesznik, they do carry rabies and you don't want these things flying around your family room ,now. That usually doesn't happen until the spring".
The plumbing eventually was repaired. Burney the plumber/golf-pro did leave to torment another customer and I waited for the next "challenge", as George puts it, to greet me.But, that's another story..........
I wanted to start this new year by telling you my story and the story of "Cottage Hill Farm".This will be a series of "Notes from Cottage Hill Farm....
What do you say about a house, a farm that has brought you so much joy and comfort for 10 years, now? When I first saw "her" she was old and tired.She had vines growing in her windows and paint peeling off her 200 year old frame,but to me she was beautiful.
Cottage Hill Farm was built in 1795 by David Hall, a planter, sheeperder and local statesman.She has seen births, deaths, indian attacks and fires and survived them all.
January 2005.....
I have always been a city girl, so coming to the rural countryside was going to be a challenge.That first winter was brutal.
One day while unpacking, I noticed, in the corner of the living room, pieces of paper sticking out of the wall. Not knowing any better at the time, I started to pull them out.Within an hour, I had removed "Vermont insulation".Old newspapers placed there over the years to fill in the cracks within the plaster where the walls met. The sun light started creeping in from behind the walls, followed by a cold blast of arctic air.Needless to say, George,(thats' my Husband) was not pleased.After a long night at the hospital (He's a doctor).He spent six hours filling in the holes I created, using joint compound. I did provide hot coffee that didn't seem to compensate.Especially when we went to bed that night,it was so cold, we could see our breath.
Five thirty in the morning came way too soon. Our bedroom was freezing .So, the thought of a nice hot shower was going to lift my spirits and enable me to get breakfast and make amends for,
"destroying the walls" the day before.
As I stood there, the only thing coming out of the shower head was a terrible "banging" noise and air. George, in his underwear and sorel boots,(cute, huh!) dragged his cold and tired body to the basement where the boiler is. Of course I followed him, giving moral support for what lie ahead. The full english basement, was an ice skating rink! Three inches of ice from a broken water pipe water had been running all night. No running water in the house, but plenty in the basement.
The "plumber" and local golf pro, only took two days to find the "problem". The "problem" was only going to cost "around" ten to twenty thousand dollars to fix. It was a complete replacement of plumbing, heating, defrosting the basement.
That week I spent at "the mall". Five stores, which anchor stores are, K-Mart and Sears. I cried that day. Alot. I was being thrown into a maelstrom.
I hated that house.I hated Vermont.Especially the plumber/golf-pro. I hated living at the mall, just to stay warm while, God knows what was going on at the farm. I decided to go and "check in", just in case, the plumbing crew was ahead of schedule. When I arrived, the first thing I noticed was a strong smell of kerosene filling the entire ground floor of the house.
Entering the basement, I noticed a large oil drum (who could miss it?) in the center of the room stuffed with scrap wood and old newspapers. You guessed it. The newspapers from the walls. Music was provided by "Hank Williams". lunch:"Kamudas' General store and post office." I was in hell. At least purgatory. Burney, plumber/golf-pro, told me:"It might take a little longer than he first thought. It seems, a family of bats had decided to inhabit the boiler.The game warden would have to be called because you know "Mssssssss Lesznik, they do carry rabies and you don't want these things flying around your family room ,now. That usually doesn't happen until the spring".
The plumbing eventually was repaired. Burney the plumber/golf-pro did leave to torment another customer and I waited for the next "challenge", as George puts it, to greet me.But, that's another story..........
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)