Having spent all of my youth and formative years in the country and Al having come from a small village in Pennsylvania, we were well aware that new people in a rural community are always watched carefully, judged, usually criticized, invariably found wanting and made the butt of much humor and gossip by the local populace. We were no exception and a move such as we had just made afforded the natives a rare chance to match wits in being Tellers of Tall Tales. It took much longer than I would have thought to be truly accepted. The term ‘Newcomer’ which is always applied, has a tendency to stick and even after twenty-five years we found occasions when the term was still being applied to us by some of the older folk. Lest I be misunderstood let me hasten to explain that once one has passed the initial tests and has not been found wanting, one is accepted and all of the inherent friendliness and hospitality, the neighborliness and helpfulness, is generously extended as we on many occasions had reason to fully realize.
I believe that one of the first stories that gained the widest circulation and tended to improve with telling, centered around one of my husband’s first experiences in cleaning the cow stable: This chore was no small feat. It involved shovelling the “poor man’s gold” from the gutter onto a wheelbarrow, then wheeling it up a plank placed against the wagon or bob-sled, emptying it and returning for another load, until the barn was spotlessly clean. The team of grays hauled the load to one of the fields where it was forked off, spread evenly and acted as excellent fertilizer. Very often it required two trips to the field to complete the job. We discovered in the first days that the weather picture was vastly different upstate than we were used to in Westchester, and this early morning hauling and spreading of manure was a chilling experience. The new blue denim farm jacket was far from warm enough and when I beheld Al one morning returning from his labors with a definite bluish cast on face, neck and hands, I figured that a change was indicated. So to the rescue! I remembered that he had several topcoats and overcoats, and I was reasonably certain that our social activities would be so minimal for some time to come, that some of these city clothes might as well be pressed into service.
After consideration I selected the oldest overcoat which was a dove-gray herringbone double-breasted Chesterfield, with a black velvet collar. It was mid-calf in length and in 1943 much in vogue. This he accepted without demur, donned it and proceeded with the second load of the morning. He drove off standing at the front of the wagon, feet planted firmly and a goodly distance apart to retain balance, looking very chic and slightly ridiculous in the dress overcoat. Watching from the barn yard I could see him in silhouette against the skyline, pitchfork in hand throwing off the manure with a verve and energy that made me proud of him.
It was some weeks later that I learned the sequel to the above. One of the neighbors who apparently had a spy-glass trained on us, checking on all activities that we were engaged in, reported gleefully that the Newcomer was up on the hill spreading manure wear1ng a velvet-collared, long overcoat. This sort of news could be and usually was broadcast quickly and efficiently due to the fact that there were about sixteen families on the party telephone line, and everyone was alerted when anyone got a call, as all of the rings sounded loud and clear. With much derisive laughter and merriment they agreed that if this was an indication of our approach to things, they would not have to worry about having us in their midst for long, we would soon be returning from whence we had come. When we eventually learned of some of these tales involving us it always tickled our funny bones and fortunately we could see humor and get a laugh. It added spice to the daily routine, sort of replaced the theater in our lives, and we managed to retain our sanity.
We had been told that it was necessary to check all of our line fences before the stock was turned out to pasture, and usually farmers try to get this chore out of the way before the spring fieldwork starts. In Robert Frost’s “Mending Walls” he says “good fences make good neighbors” and certainly line fences can be the basis for many major disputes. One morning after completing the barn work we loaded the wagon with fence posts, wire, fence stretchers, staples, a post maul, an axe and hatchet and set forth. I was precariously perched on a board thrown across the wagon box, which periodically slipped off due to the jolting ride. With the packed lunch beside me and a rein clutched firmly in each hand I guided the trusty team of horses around our boundaries. Pup cavorted to and fro, scenting out animals large and small, and giving the impression of being very busy and useful. We found much repairing to be done and the work was hard and tiring. We spent several days at this and discovered six months later, after repairing and rebuilding the fences around our property, that each line fence is usually maintained half by each farmer whose land it separates. This incident again caused much hilarity in the immediate neighborhood, but we bided our time and we learned—oh yes we learned—and usually the hard way.
It was while we pursued the fencing operation that we actually traversed and discovered our whole farm. Pup always accompanied us on all of the field trips and as he was a hunter at heart he ran hither and yon chasing rabbits, woodchucks, treeing squirrels and chipmunks and occasionally surprising and routing deer. When one is fortunate to get reasonably close to deer and is privileged to them throw up their heads with nostrils quivering, wheel quickIy, put up the white flag and run fast and silently and oh so gracefully, clearing any fence or obstruction in their path with an ease and agility unmatched, one can honestly feel that he is being treated to an unforgettable spectacle.
The deed to the farm told us that we owned about twelve acres of woods which we had been very anxious to explore. On one of our fencing expeditions we arrived at that part of our property and we decided we could afford to take a half hour from our labors, and see just what we had bought. On that sunny May afternoon we tied the team to a couple of saplings and followed a path into the woods. The trees were deciduous, mostly sugar maple with some beech, birch and oak. Some of the trees were huge. We saw considerable second growth and small seedlings everywhere. Many years accumulation of leaf mold cushioned our footsteps so that except for a breaking twig or the snap of a dead branch being pushed aside, there was a sense of complete silence and peace. As Pup reconnoitered, a gray squirrel chattered from a tree-top and there was the musical sounds of the song birds, newly returned from warmer climes indulging joyously in the mating season.
As we strolled deeper into the woods, unconsciously speaking in hushed tones, we could hear the sound of water in the distance. With our ears guiding us we soon came upon a steep-sided gorge which ran at an angle through one end of the bush. Because of the spring freshet the water was cold, clear, clean and sparkling, with clumps of emerald green watercress growing abundantly. It tumbled along swiftly, gurgling over the stones, curving in and around the old tree stumps and causing little eddies topped with white froth.
Along the banks a carpet of varicolored violets grew lush and fragrant, seeding, reseeding, crossing and replenishing themselves, year after year. There were delicate white ones with a tiny blue shading in the center, velvety yellows, all shades of blue—from the palest to the deep, rich purples—and the foliage surrounding these long-stemmed beauties was deep green, shining and perfect. It was a veritable fairyland, a bower of loveliness, where one could be alone with nature at her best.
Strolling on I noticed that the hepaticas, blood root, dogtooth violets, Dutchman’s breeches and trailing arbutus had been gone, but I had not missed the trilliums and for this I was truly grateful. As we crested a slight knoll an expanse of white trilliums and red wake robins unfolded before us. The late afternoon sunlight was filtering through the treetops causing lights and shadows to play upon this picture. There they stood, hundreds of them, shoulder to shoulder, nodding in the gentle breeze. As I stood, looking, it occurred to me that had we not happened to come here this particular day, probably no human eye would have beheld this wonder—they would have bloomed and withered and replenished themselves to bloom again another year, with no help or care except that provided so adequately by nature.
I stooped and started to pick a bouquet and after gathering several beautiful specimens, I stopped, deciding that here in their natural habitat was where they rightfully belonged and it seemed wrong to pick and carry them away. As we left the woods I made a vow that as long as I was physically able, each spring I would make a pilgrimage to this private little bit of heaven and by so doing, renew my soul.