Jilly D.

Posts Tagged ‘On Warren Pond Farm’

Stirred, shaken, crushed

In Mourning, Pictures and memories, Signs from beyond, The Farm, Time and seasons on April 13, 2011 at 3:05 am

The interior life of my middle life has so many reference points in the external world and yet at moments it slips into an abyss of alienation from all of that reality. To get grounded I’ve been taking the dogs on long walks back along the shores of Warren Pond. The snow is all gone, though it’s still too wet to plow the fields.

It’s good to see vehicles in front of the cabin and barns. Seeing guys working as I turned down into the field from the long curving lane made me take a breath and relax. Things are happening; improvements are being made.

The back addition, the ‘sun room’ where Sam had installed a panorama for his Lionel Train set is long gone. All the solar panels are off the roof and most all of the wood is being saved for reuse. The Andersons, who bought the farm last September, are moving forward with their own exciting plans to build sustainably. The millhouse came down yesterday afternoon.

The waterwheel, ten feet in diameter, made of steel, stood under the sky again. I remembered Sam building it; and I have photographs of it before the millhouse went up around it. I have no idea how they’re going to move that but these guys working are making progress fast. It’s spring. New beginnings.

Many fruit trees planted, chickens on their way, and a whole host of wonderful new adventures for the Andersons, Darryl and Suzanne and their four grown children. This afternoon the crew had stripped the front porch off.

Today the cabin is back to its original size: 14 X 20 feet; but there’s no kitchen lean-to left. You can see each and every stone Sam set for its foundation.  The outdoor furnace is completely gone.

The dogs and I walked the fields. Lucy splashed through every puddle and plopped along the edge of the pond enjoying the change in season. Scooby dashed through the open fields; stretching those long legs in heart- thumping gallops and jumping over hurdles.

Sitting on the western edge of the pond a very large turtle pushed off into the pond’s deep water; just in advance of the dancing Dalmatians. Heard it before I saw it. Big turtle.

Walked to the pavilion and kissed Sam’s gravestone.


Squirrel Talk

In Mourning, Pictures and memories, Signs from beyond on April 8, 2011 at 2:18 am

On Monday I pulled into a parking spot in front of a tree. A squirrel ran halfway up the trunk and turned around to look at me. Leaning over the steering wheel and up under the rearview mirror, I looked harder at him. We stared at each other for a long meaningful glance. Squirrel shifted his weight back and forth on his cold feet and pushed its nose down into the air above the hood of my car, glaring at me. Then squirrel started talking at me, telling me in no uncertain terms I have no idea what. Stunned by the talking squirrel I listened and looked without moving. Once the squirrel had finished his lecture, he scurried up into the budding limbs of the tree.

Sam had a pet squirrel in the house for more than a year. He built him a very large cage across the inside of the front side of the house with floor to ceiling windows to watch the wildlife on Warren Pond. Rocky the squirrel and Sam played around for hours at a time. Sam would feed him by hand. Rocky would crawl all over Sam but mostly sat in the crook of his arm.

Sam had all kinds of critters. He had that Dr. Doolittle voo-doo animal-speak thing going on all the time. Raised a pair of baby skunks inside. I can’t tell you how many white tail fawns and baby goats spent months indoors instead of in the barn.

One hot day we were going to bale hay. Sam told me after coffee that morning he’d go hook up the baler and wagons and would come back in to get me. Took him forever. He walked in the door with a fieldmouse. He’d saved it from the baling machine where it would’ve gotten crushed if he’d turned it on. He said it was tangled in the twine; so it was a delicate operation getting his fingers in there to get the mouse out.

I have no idea what that squirrel said to me Monday morning but I can still hear inside my head what Sam would have said to me.

Sourpuss lemon chicken

In Grief, Mourning, Time and seasons on January 9, 2011 at 1:58 am

Sam walking down the lane

That describes me pretty good. It’s January, cold, and I struggle with pain issues and more. Lost my sense of humor just like my sense of balance.

No, this isn’t a recipe blog. It’s a remembrance of the best of things and griefwords over its passing. Though check back for my soul food.

One winter it was so cold that when I finally broke through the ice on the pond and filled the bucket for the chickens in the barn I noticed one or two had frozen their toes right off. That’s right, nothing but stubs to hobble around on.

Sam could endure more pain than anyone I ever met. He had all his teeth pulled out at one time. True story. Felt fine the next day. The deer, elk and bison used to bash him around quite a bit. He weighed less than 140 pounds and every bit of it was muscle on his 5’9″ frame.

Arms scarred by antlers as badly as his corneas by welding. When in his early twenties Sam burned half his face off in a bad under-the-hood fire (explosion!) Pain is something he always knew intimately.

Farming is a dangerous business and there were lots of injuries between the two of us. I stepped on a rake and gave myself a shiner in the middle of my forehead once. It hurt. Learned finally what Sam had told me dozens of times. Never leave a rake on the ground tines up. That meant even when the phone was ringing inside and I had to run to catch it.

He broke his foot I don’t know exactly how many times. He told me about the one time when  he was trucking and walking his dog Buddy at a rest stop and put his foot into a groundhog hole and fell. He got back to his 18 wheeler and crawled in. Spent three days there and had a couple who were truckers parked next to him walk his dachshund. Eventually got inside the truckstop on the fourth day and showered and cleaned up and got back on the road. It healed. Not properly, he broke it again. Doc asked who fixed it the first time?

When his wrist was broken I came home one day from town and he asked me to make up some of my papier mache. I’d been experimenting with decoupage and mask-making and he’d watched me mix up flour and water into a paste and create with newspaper strips some hard casts.

I prepared the artist of pain his palette for orthopedics and assisted like a dental hygenist; only when asked to do a technical task in the proper execution of his wrist cast. Carefully he laid wet strips of newspaper on his strawberry-blonde hairy forearm. I dipped the strips in the sloppy paste of flour and water and handed each one to him as he built up a cast around his hand, wrist and forearm.

He never let it quite dry enough before he started using his hand. Simple things like turning the door knob and you could hear the bones crack. Flushing the toilet. Thank you. But it hurt. The sparks from welding flew inside and sizzled his skin. The cast didn’t last long.

He never complained about pain. The weather, yes. But he’d never be wuss enough to let on that he was hurting. Physical pain beyond my low threshold capacity.

When I first met him I noticed a deep crease in his brow. Where his eyebrows came together and his forehead met his nose, a set of wrinkles dug in deep, even when he slept. He worried.

When he’d fall asleep I liked to touch his face and massage his temples and brow. Slowly but surely he let me rub his skin with unscented cream and those deep lines disappeared overnight. He’d smile and the only lines in his face were those laughter ones at the corner of his blue eyes.

Massaging away that furrowed look of pain and worry I believed things were getting better and better. And he made me feel as though we were getting better and better. The year before he died I remember a million firsts for him that I thought were incredible breakthroughs in our intense love relationship. One example I can share is he opened the door to his sister’s house on Easter when my hands were full of a plate of devilled eggs.  It was not customary for him to open doors for me. He even installed an outdoor entry that had a weight to close the door behind me. That he acted like such a gentleman after all these years of bachelor farmer behavior levelled me and I let him know with gratitude how much such small things still mattered to me.

Never complained about the pain. He manned up. He was the ultimate manly man.

Me? I am a wuss. A girly girl. Actually an old widow in pain and that is not how I want to live out the rest of my remaining years. I had the best years of my life with Sam. Everything I am today is because of him. And I am not 39 anymore.

He used to tell me he wished he were 20 again but with all the wisdom he’d gained since. I waited all my life to meet someone like him. I wasn’t ready and neither was he before that magical moment in the intersection of our life stories. He sure made my daily life an adventure.

I don’t regret a thing. I fell head over heels with a most incredible man. I spent as much time with him as he could possibly endure! We shared everything and worked side by side and enjoyed all the sweetness the good life had to offer us living off the grid and living off the land.

I simply miss being with him at home On Warren Pond Farm. We had a good life.

on warren pond farm; not a place a purpose

In The Farm, Time and seasons on August 22, 2010 at 3:20 am

The next 10 days are my last here On Warren Pond Farm at 6200 Deer Run Lane. It’s limbo land. Everything I plan to bring with me into the next chapter of my life is boxed up and stored in the sunroom. I am going to be leaving the most perfect place left on planet Earth and that makes me very sad. But that sadness is nothing compared to losing Sam. I’ve suffered the worst. Nothing is difficult in comparison. Now I am soaking up the spirit of this place to take with me deep in my heart, etched into my eyes, inscribed in my memory. What I will take with me are good memories, deep life lessons, and a purpose. To live life to its fullest, to take on every challenge, to check off  all the items on my bucket list; because you can’t make more time. You can always make more money. But time is the most precious of non renewable resources.