The Farm

Lest anyone thinks my childhood only consisted of "character building" experiences (translation for my kids, life sucked), allow me to share some of my most precious memories.

Let me tell you about my grandparent's acreage in Arlington Vermont.  This piece of land was valuable, something that didn't matter to me as a kid, but as an adult, I can appreciate the uniqueness of this property.

Vermont as a state prides itself on it's rural feel.  Vermont laws are crafted to allow the state to keep it's rural atmosphere, including laws against the use of bill boards, laws against super sized businesses that protect mom and pop stores and a specific law that doesn't allow buildings to be built above a certain elevation.  My grandparents farm was above this magical line, built before the law was put into place and making the property extremely rare.

It exists up at the end of a dirt road, with a narrow driveway on a steep grade snaking up to multiple out buildings and the New England style farm house with a wrap around front porch.

It wasn't a real farm, the house isn't insulated for winters, it's really just a summer home with a distinct metal sign, showing a silhouette of a man, wearing a distinctive Swiss type hat climbing a peak and the words "Swiss Farm".

As children we affectionately called my grandparents summer home "the farm". 

The farm had everything a child could want.  There was a brook, tons of buildings, fields, a pond complete with frogs, salamanders and a diving board for anyone brave enough to jump in the freezing water.  The pond was fed by a freshwater spring guaranteeing frozen toes and ankles on the hottest of summer days. Throw in apple trees to climb in the fall, rhubarb to pick, and antiques inside the house that I use to spend hours exploring.

The whole experience was treasured.  We often drove through rural Vermont, passing horses and cemeteries, old fashion stores, churches and a beautiful covered bridge that allowed only one vehicle at a time to cross.

Out of all the cousins, we lived the closest, allowing us to visit the farm before even my grandparents were back from Florida.  The house wasn't open but we'd bring a picnic lunch and go swimming.  After my grandparents arrived and open up the house, almost every Saturday allowed a visit up.  My grandfather listened to whatever you had to say, even when he disagreed.  My grandmother would ask my opinion of her sketches, destined to become one of her needlepoints, weighing my opinion as if I was an equal.  

Of course the real fun happened when the cousins came to visit.  We played for hours together.  There was endless talk with the adults, grilled foods, lots of soda, my grandmother fussing about everyone, trying to make sure everyone was happy.

I think of the farm, I picture my grandfather watching golf on his television, that had to be carefully tuned in on the rotating antenna.  I see my grandmother's lightning fast fingers working their magic on her self made design, making memories with yarn and stitches.  Some of her classics included characters of her and grandpa.  I remember climbing the apple tree, filling paper bags with tart apples to be brought home.

I remember the furniture, the old spinning wheel fascinated me.  Latch hook rugs my grandmother had made.  Every corner of the house held bits of my grandparents from the antique books, crafted works of art of my grandmother placed on walls, floors, couches and beds, to the political magazines and plaques gifted to grandfather from foreign dignitaries. 

I miss the farm.  I'm in Idaho and my dad's sister and husband own it now.  Sometimes I do feel sad that my children will never appreciate that special place that was such a big part of my childhood.  Usually though, when I think of the farm, I smile.

It was the embodiment of childhood living on mostly in my dreams and memories.  Well and on my wall.  On the trip back to Vermont for my dad's funeral my husband took pictures, printed and framed them for Christmas that year.

I bawled when I opened the package and they are in my front room.  Whenever I sit and just think, I look over and remember.