We are having a particularly cold spell of weather in Vermont. Temperatures are hovering around zero during the day and as low as minus 20 degrees Fahrenheit at night. The home that my husband and I have built over the many years is so snug and cozy to come home to each evening that the weather doesn’t bother me at all.
It was not always that way. When first we met and began our life together, our dreams were grand but our pockets were empty. This giant of a man, to whom I have been married for more than 37 years, lived in a dear little house close to the river without heat or indoor plumbing. Together we would transform it into our first home.
First, we had to own it. We borrowed the purchase price of $5,000 from my father and the house with 3 acres of land bordering Sterling Brook was ours. Once a tenement building for the local saw mill and used only seasonally it was in need of a major renovation.
Just by chance, an old friend showed up at this time, driving a school bus that had seen better days. The proverbial light bulb went off and with just $50 passing hands, the school bus became permanently parked on our lawn. The term ‘lawn’ is used loosely since that lawn was buried under about 3 feet of snow. It was already April but little snow had melted from the long winter and so the emergency door in the back of the bus was level with the snow. Very convenient! This was to be our temporary home while we worked on the house.
Quickly, we ripped out the seats and set about furnishing the space. With windows on all sides, curtains were a priority. Next we dragged an old oriental rug out of the house to cover the floor. Where the seats had been, anchoring devices still remained stubbing our toes. Looking back, that rug was probably quite valuable although a corner had already been cut. Now we took shears to it and redesigned it, bus-shape. Next was the double bed complete with head and foot boards. It fit crossways with just enough room to squeeze around the end. A table and two chairs, a two burner hot plate and a bucket completed the interior design. We ran an electric cable from the house and had a telephone installed just inside the folding entrance door.
We had no heat but spring was coming and a large malamute/shepherd cross named Beau and two cats helped provide body heat once we all crawled into the rather inadequately-sized bed.
The bucket was our water container but also served as a thermometer. When ice had formed overnight, it was cold! The water came from the brook and had to be hauled several times a day for flushing the toilet in the shed, washing and cooking. It was frigid and just boiling it for coffee on the hot plate was a lengthy procedure. As spring moved into summer the passive solar heat from all the windows we had enjoyed in colder weather turned our capsule into a sauna. Now we could enjoy dipping in the brook to cool off.
All the while we were tearing the house apart. The interior walls made of lathe and plaster and some newspaper stuffed in for insulation had to be removed. The foundation was old stone, collapsing in places, and the sills were rotten. These all needed replacing and a small addition was added. The two of us worked together in the evenings and on weekends while working our regular jobs until late in November when we were able to move into two rooms of the house. Still we had the hotplate and by now an electric frying pan but best of all we had a working bathroom. We were on our way.
The yellow school bus had served us well and in time was passed on yet again. We continued to work on the house, room by room, until we had added a mother-in-law, a child and another on the way. It was time to move to bigger accommodations. We sold the house, purchased another property, close-by, with 30 acres and an existing farmhouse and started building our second home. Now some 32 years later, back to just the two of us, we are ready to move once more. The property is for sale and we are planning our third house to suit our senior years. Are we crazy? Maybe ……
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Friday, January 2, 2009
Boxing Day
When I was growing up in England, Boxing Day, named for the boxes filled with left over food and given to the servants on the day after Christmas, was second in my book, only to the gift receiving day itself. By the fifties, few families had servants including ours but Boxing Day was special for another reason. Traditionally, it was the opening day of fox hunting.
My first introduction to this gala event at age 11 is deeply ingrained in my memory for many reasons, not all of which I can be proud. The 'Meet' for the Duke of Beaufort's hunt was held on the lawns of his stately home in Gloucestershire where more than a hundred riders would gather to sip sherry and speculate on the upcoming day's events. Many of the women rode side saddle with long skirted habits while the men wore hunting pink and top hats, I kid you not! The children of these affluent families, dressed in miniature tweed jackets and jodhpurs rode perfect ponies with braided manes and polished bridles. Then there were the others. My sister and I, together with our friends, fit the 'other' category.
On this first outing we rose at daybreak to feed and groom our ponies, clean our tack and stuff a couple of turkey sandwiches into our pockets. By 8:00 am we were mounted and had begun our 10 mile journey just to get to the Meet. By the time we arrived two hours later, damp and mud splattered, our appearance was disheveled but our excitement was intense. The hounds were baying, anxious to get going, the horses were beginning to stamp their feet and the sherry glasses were almost empty. I was loving it. Proudly I sat on my little round pony of no particular ancestry, soaking up the moment, when without warning my pony’s knees buckled and I was on the ground. The wretched creature had decided that he had an itch and it was time for a roll. While he was on his back grinding my saddle into the mud and onlookers were quietly giggling behind their leather gloved hands, I tugged ineffectually on the reins to try to right the beast. That was only the first of several embarrassing moments.
For those of you unfamiliar with this age-old sport, now banned in England, this is how it goes: the huntsmen encourage the hounds to pick up the scent of an unsuspecting fox and once detected the lead hound gives voice and the pack then takes off in pursuit. Once the fox is caught, possibly miles and hours later, it is consumed by the hounds, that is why it is called a ‘blood sport’, and then it begins all over again .The rest of the riders are just followers. Rule #1 – never, I repeat, never go ahead of a huntsman.
Neither my pony nor I were very experienced so my control of him was severely limited. He had a tendency to take the bit between his teeth and run away and no amount of hauling on the reins had any effect. He also didn’t like to jump much. Still my confidence level was high as I positioned myself near the back of the ‘field’ listening for the ‘Tally Ho’ and the hunting horn signifying that the hounds were on the scent.
Within minutes we were away. This huge mass of horseflesh was instantly in full gallop across endless rolling fields separated only by stone walls. What a rush! The first obstacle was coming up fast and much to my surprise we sailed over a low section of wall without hesitation. My, this was fun! Ahead of us the field was slowing to allow the hounds to regroup and one of the huntsmen signaled the field to ‘Hold Hard’. This was not an order my pony understood and by now I had no say. We tore past the other riders, past the Field Master, a major rule infringement, but still a stone wall separated us from the working hounds. Fortunately, at this point my headstrong equine came to a screeching halt sending me flying over his head. Embarrassing moment #2.
As the day wore on the ‘field’ spread out and I found myself hacking to the next likely location in the company of the Duke and Duchess of Beaufort. My ego now restored, I eagerly jumped out of the saddle to open a gate to allow them through. They acknowledged my politeness with a nod and waited to allow me to remount. I was feeling pretty good. As I swung my leg over the saddle that disgusting little four-legged animal moved swiftly to his left depositing me on the far side, flat on my back in a plowed field. Did I mention that it had been raining for days? Embarrassing moment #3.
I survived that first Boxing Day hunt to go on to many more. There were new ponies and more unspeakable moments but the thrill of the chase surpassed all. Yes, the ‘sport’ was ugly but the pageantry was magnificent.
My first introduction to this gala event at age 11 is deeply ingrained in my memory for many reasons, not all of which I can be proud. The 'Meet' for the Duke of Beaufort's hunt was held on the lawns of his stately home in Gloucestershire where more than a hundred riders would gather to sip sherry and speculate on the upcoming day's events. Many of the women rode side saddle with long skirted habits while the men wore hunting pink and top hats, I kid you not! The children of these affluent families, dressed in miniature tweed jackets and jodhpurs rode perfect ponies with braided manes and polished bridles. Then there were the others. My sister and I, together with our friends, fit the 'other' category.
On this first outing we rose at daybreak to feed and groom our ponies, clean our tack and stuff a couple of turkey sandwiches into our pockets. By 8:00 am we were mounted and had begun our 10 mile journey just to get to the Meet. By the time we arrived two hours later, damp and mud splattered, our appearance was disheveled but our excitement was intense. The hounds were baying, anxious to get going, the horses were beginning to stamp their feet and the sherry glasses were almost empty. I was loving it. Proudly I sat on my little round pony of no particular ancestry, soaking up the moment, when without warning my pony’s knees buckled and I was on the ground. The wretched creature had decided that he had an itch and it was time for a roll. While he was on his back grinding my saddle into the mud and onlookers were quietly giggling behind their leather gloved hands, I tugged ineffectually on the reins to try to right the beast. That was only the first of several embarrassing moments.
For those of you unfamiliar with this age-old sport, now banned in England, this is how it goes: the huntsmen encourage the hounds to pick up the scent of an unsuspecting fox and once detected the lead hound gives voice and the pack then takes off in pursuit. Once the fox is caught, possibly miles and hours later, it is consumed by the hounds, that is why it is called a ‘blood sport’, and then it begins all over again .The rest of the riders are just followers. Rule #1 – never, I repeat, never go ahead of a huntsman.
Neither my pony nor I were very experienced so my control of him was severely limited. He had a tendency to take the bit between his teeth and run away and no amount of hauling on the reins had any effect. He also didn’t like to jump much. Still my confidence level was high as I positioned myself near the back of the ‘field’ listening for the ‘Tally Ho’ and the hunting horn signifying that the hounds were on the scent.
Within minutes we were away. This huge mass of horseflesh was instantly in full gallop across endless rolling fields separated only by stone walls. What a rush! The first obstacle was coming up fast and much to my surprise we sailed over a low section of wall without hesitation. My, this was fun! Ahead of us the field was slowing to allow the hounds to regroup and one of the huntsmen signaled the field to ‘Hold Hard’. This was not an order my pony understood and by now I had no say. We tore past the other riders, past the Field Master, a major rule infringement, but still a stone wall separated us from the working hounds. Fortunately, at this point my headstrong equine came to a screeching halt sending me flying over his head. Embarrassing moment #2.
As the day wore on the ‘field’ spread out and I found myself hacking to the next likely location in the company of the Duke and Duchess of Beaufort. My ego now restored, I eagerly jumped out of the saddle to open a gate to allow them through. They acknowledged my politeness with a nod and waited to allow me to remount. I was feeling pretty good. As I swung my leg over the saddle that disgusting little four-legged animal moved swiftly to his left depositing me on the far side, flat on my back in a plowed field. Did I mention that it had been raining for days? Embarrassing moment #3.
I survived that first Boxing Day hunt to go on to many more. There were new ponies and more unspeakable moments but the thrill of the chase surpassed all. Yes, the ‘sport’ was ugly but the pageantry was magnificent.
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