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....