Posts Tagged ‘summer on the farm’
defining our spaces
Fences have always been my favourite type of human architecture. I like them because they are a place to sit and observe the landscape.
The reasons for building fences are varied. They mark the boundaries between properties, keep domestic and other animals in or out, create a visual edge to property, prevent uncontrolled movement of vehicles, provide privacy, and so on. Did I mention they are also fine places to sit?
Types of fences are as varied as the reasons for building them.
On our vacation to Maine, we encountered some unfamiliar types, although I have seen examples of these in New Brunswick. The fences I liked the best were made of stone, sometimes so much a part of the local landscape they could have been natural, not human-made…
poles and sturdy metal cable…
wood with mortise and tenon…
In New Brunswick, a familiar traditional fence is made with cedar, the rails fitted together in a zigzag…
Stone fences, put together with mortar, are common around churchyards…
Farm fences are usually of the post and wire type…
My favourite fence is the type my husband builds, a modern version of the traditional cedar rail fence, held together by gravity and no nails…
lethargy
~
on the breathing side
of the window
beyond the curtain
limply lifted
is a pleasant day
a dandelioned field
a sloe-eyed cow
sumac leaning on the fence
a weary hitch-hiker beside
a carless road
~
reminds me
of a basket of patches
a quilt to assemble
hems to stitch
perennials to weed
letters to crumple
and stars to count
in a cinnamon
and saccharine
apple-crumble
sky
~
more to do
than prop one arm
on the window sill
and lift the muslin
barely higher
than the hitch-hiker’s
wilted shoulders
unslung pack
or knee-supported head
~
© Jane Tims 2010
under the haystack
In our area, late summer is haymaking time. During the past two weeks, almost every field has been at some stage of mowing, bailing, or gathering. Farmers tried to bring their hay in before the August 28 tropical storm (Hurricane Irene), so most fields are now cut and cleared.
Haymaking is a picturesque activity. The cut hay is formed into parallel windrows in the fields, an artist’s lesson in perspective. The cutting and bailing and drying of hay are all fascinating to watch.
In the 1960s, at my grandfather’s farm, hay was gathered loose into a horse-drawn hay wagon and stored unbailed in the barn. One summer, I was thrilled to be asked to help ‘tramp hay’. As the fluffy hay was forked into the wagon, our work was to compress it by rolling and stomping and jumping.
Haying methods have changed, of course. Collecting loose hay is almost non-existent. Even the smaller square bails are hard to find. The most common are the cylindrical ‘round’ bails or the white plastic-wrapped silage bails.
The round bails look like plump shredded wheat…
and the silage bails are giant marshmallows.
At sunset, the shadows of the round bails make musical half notes on the fields.
'half notes'
Summer Song
~
Sunbury County
sings in its sleep
purple vetch
hop clover
bluegrass
at the roadside
~
hay in rows
a staff
empty of song
awaiting
round bails and their shadows
half notes for an oboe
~
honey bee
ditty in the pink and red-hipped
old fashioned roses
bid country roads
enter the covered bridge
glimpses between planking
rock music on the water
tires drum on loose boards
~
deer look up
cattle low in the meadow
owl to whitethroat
counterpoint
goldenrod pollens the air
rushes by the Rusagonis River
north and south
~
over Sunpoke
big moon crescendo
~
trembles of aspen
diminish
~
Published as: Spring 1995, “Summer Song”, The Cormorant XI (2)
(revised)
© Jane Tims
the glassed-in porch
My grandfather lived in a big white farmhouse. It had rooms and rooms, but the focus of life was the kitchen. On rainy days, we could play there quietly.
Sometimes we were allowed to spend the afternoon in the glassed-in porch just off the kitchen. It was whitewashed, and had filmy white curtains and wide window ledges.
On those ledges was a fastinating collection of knick-knacks and trinkets. Examining these items was very entertaining although we were not really allowed to touch anything.
I have tried to emulate this magical jumble of artifacts in my own home, but some spaces are impossible to duplicate.
a collection on a window ledge
glassed-in porch in rain
~
rainy day glassed-in porch
tall windows and white step
down from the kitchen
to linoleum wicker table a cot
~
never-used porch door
at the windows, white ledges
keepsakes and trinkets
‘look but don’t touch’
~
big clock in the kitchen ticks
red-eared slider frantic against
the frosted sides of his bowl
rain taps at the window
~
irresistible urge to give the turtle
respite, lift the curtain to admire
the rain, lift the velvet lid
of the purple box, Port Maitland
~
iron pyrite safe inside, encourage
dippy bird to tip and drink
from the glass of water, blue tulips
and a chip in its rim
~
nudge the red and yellow-flocked
parrot above the cot, swing him
on his metal perch, rearrange ceramic chicks
to peck at whitewashed window ledge
~
focus rose bowl ruby light
on china pig, puzzle out flowers
and holes on his back, turn the bud vase over
‘where is Occupied Japan?’
~
pour buttons from the jar, sort
and match Meteghan sea glass, marbles
in a coffee can, take a ship with scallop shells
for sails along the sill
~
trace paths of hesitant rain
droplets on glass
~
© Jane Tims 2011
a map of my grandfather’s farm
“My grandfather’s farm was like a community itself, a miniature village of buildings. They included the main house, the big barn and various out-buildings. In my memory, there were about eight buildings in all, each with its own purpose, and its own sights, sounds, smells, tastes and stories.” (August 1, 2011, on my grandfather’s farm)
a farm near Moncton ... like a village of buildings
Below is a map of my grandfather’s farm, as I remember it.
The buildings were in a setting of the spaces around them – the orchard, the pastures, the barn yard and the garden.
Some of the buildings, the barn, the house, the mink pen, the garage and the bird loft, I remember very well. Other buildings, the wagon shed, the machine shed, and the shed beside the pasture, I remember only a little. Since my brothers and sister don’t remember these last three at all, or remember other configurations, perhaps these buildings are part of a manufactured memory.
a simple map of my grandfather's farm (not to scale)
an apple tree like the one I remember, with a branch made for sitting and reading
water from the well
an old-style water pump
water from the well
~
taps in the house
running water hot and cold
why did my grandfather
carry in from the well
two pails of water each day?
handle pumped
well primed
~
he filled three buckets
one he poured
half into Dandy’s bowl
half he left beside the well
for the next day’s prime
~
two he lifted to the narrow step
set them down
opened the screen door
with a squeak
shut with satisfying thunder
~
carried the pails into the entry
set them down
settled his cap on a hook
row of hooks made of wire
hangers bent double and painted
~
carried the pails to the white door
a narrow door
with a latch
set them down
opened the door and climbed the stair
returned in a minute or so
carried the pails
into the kitchen
~
set one next to the sink
by the inside door
where I brushed
my teeth in the morning
enameled metal
narrow mirror
one tap for warm water, one for cold
wire basket for a bar of soap
and a bucket of water
cold from the well
~
set one pail in the pantry
narrow room by the woodstove
lined with shelves
counter where my grandfather
kneaded his bread
rolled the crust for pie
metal canister for sugar
ice box for milk and eggs
and a bucket of water
cold from the well
~
© Jane Tims 2011
my grandmother’s eyes
Although my grandmother, my Dad’s mother, died shortly after I was born, she was always a part of our summer visit to my grandfather’s farm. Her photographic portrait, taken when she was a child, hung in the kitchen, above the cot where we played board games on rainy days.
I think about her sometimes, working in the kitchen, gathering apples in the orchard, making quilts for winter. My Dad, who called her Mama, told me how she made warm quilts by sewing wool squares from old sweaters to a blanket ‘backing’.
I know so little about her. I wish I had asked my Dad to tell me more.
my grandmother (photo taken in 1954)
Her Eyes Follow Me
~
1.
~
my grandmother
the one I never knew
was a portrait
a life-sized photograph
under curved glass
blurred at the edges
hung in the kitchen
~
she leaned over me
her eyes followed me
a child’s eyes
though she died at fifty
~
2.
~
the three of us
played a game
my brother watched her eyes
and I would creep
along the wall
~
leap out
~
her eyes found me
in an instant
~
3.
~
I know her eyes were blue
though the portrait was grey and white
~
4.
~
she is also
~
her last card at Christmas
a paper poinsettia
in the branches
of our tree
~
the dim photo of a mother
in a faded housedress
some unknown cousin
gathered in her arms
~
her last letter
love to the baby
~
5.
~
to say I never knew her
is a kind of lie
~
I knew her eyes
and they have
followed me
~
Published as: ‘Her Eyes Follow Me’, Winter 1996, The Antigonish Review 104:59.
(revised)
© Jane Tims
in the apple orchard
One of the spaces I loved the best on my grandfather’s farm was the apple orchard. It was a small orchard, perhaps twenty trees. I have never seen it in spring when the apple blossoms are in bloom, in fall when the trees are laden with fruit, or in winter when the stark bones of the trees are visible. But I knew the orchard in summer, when the green canopies of the trees shed thick shade over the meadow grasses beneath.
an apple orchard in August
In summer, the orchard was usually a private space. The farm yard could be bustling with people and animals, but the orchard was set apart. It was a still room of dark and dapple.
When I wasn’t pushing the swing to its limits, I was climbing apple trees, one in particular. Its main side branch was as thick as its trunk and jutted out parallel to the ground. A little jump and you could sit on it like a chair. Swing a leg across and you had a horse. Stand on it and you were in the crow’s nest of a sailing ship. Sit down again, lean against the trunk and you had the ideal perch for reading the afternoon away.
an apple orchard in spring (photo by G. Tims)
The orchard was usually a private space. But on Family Reunion Day, it was the focus of the festivities. Big tables covered with white cloths were assembled in a line. Enough chairs were unfolded for every person in our very large family. Cars turned in at the driveway and claimed a spot in the farm yard. Cousins rolled from the cars and were soon climbing and swinging in the orchard. The table gradually filled with a conundrum of casseroles, bean pots, roasters and platters.
After the eating was done, wire hoops went up for a game of croquet. My Dad loved croquet and would show me all the tricks – how to get through the starting hoops in a single turn and how to ricochet off the goal post. He also showed me how to bump up against the ball of another player and send their ball flying out of bounds on the next turn. Armed with my learning, I gripped my croquet mallet, certain to win. And realised my brothers and sister and some of the cousins had some strategies of their own!
After the Reunion was over and the last car was waved from the driveway, I was left alone in the orchard and it seemed more empty and silent than before.
I would love to return to the apple orchard on my grandfather’s farm and read a book in my tree one more time. Are you ever too old to climb an apple tree?
dapple
the worn blanket flung
over the bough
of the apple tree
is an old woman
she hugs the limb
reaches for a branch
or an apple
barely beyond
the crook
of her fingers
she would dare
to set her foot
on the branch
and the next
step up
put the orchard
below her
rise above
the canopy
the valley
the meander of the river
feeble
she waits
in the dapple
clings to the branch
endures the tremble
delays the fall
Published as: ‘dapple’, 1998, Green’s magazine (Autumn 1998) XXXVII (1)
(revised)
© Jane Tims
on my grandfather’s farm
a haybarn and its out-buildings
When August arrives, I always remember the summers of my childhood. One of my favourite places to visit was my grandfather’s farm in Nova Scotia. It was a place of rambles, exploration and discovery. I looked forward to returning there each August, to reconnect with the farm and my extended family, especially my cousins. I was a city kid and loved the country life, picking berries, tramping hay, playing in the hay mow, and going for picnics at the lake.
My grandfather’s farm was part of a small community that included my aunts and uncles, and, of course, the cousins. These were families that depended on the forests, fields and lakes for their livelihood. Food was mostly local, grown on the farm or gathered from the fields and woods.
The farm was like a community itself, a miniature village of buildings. They included the main house, the big barn and various out-buildings. In my memory, there were about eight buildings in all, each with its own purpose, and its own sights, sounds, smells, tastes and stories.
The best was the big barn, built by my great-grandfather, with a high pitched roof, two lofts for hay, a central alley between, and back stalls for the cows and horses. The chicken coop was under the hay loft of the barn, sheathed in chicken wire and stuffed with new hay. Across the yard, closer to the house, was another bird coop, a loft for the more exotic birds my grandfather liked to keep: ring necked pheasants, a golden pheasant, and fantail doves. Another out-building, the noisy mink pen, was kept apart from the house, in the pasture, to hush the noise and keep the rank smell at bay.
The other buildings hover just at the edge of my recall. I think there was a lean-to beside the barn, cool and dark, housing the hay wagon, its big wooden wheels as large in diameter as I was tall. I also remember a machine shed, smelling of grease and oil, its doors always open.
a machine shed with the remains of a garden and its old fashioned day lilies
The farm included a large acreage of pastures, fields and woods. These were also spaces to explore. My favourite was the apple orchard, and one particularly crooked tree, made for climbing. There was the farm yard with the chickens tottering about, squawking and annoying one another. Beyond the farm were the pastures, blue with berries, and the fields, edged with Black-eyed Susans, sturdy Rugosa roses, and other wild flowers. Our wandering usually followed the road, a winding way through mossy woods, leading to the lakes. Past the farm, it was a mere cart-track. Bordering the track was a fence with a swinging gate, perfect for sitting and dreaming. At one of the lakes was a favourite place for swimming, with a wooden diving board and a mythically deep pool, so clear you could see to the sandy bottom.
Farming can be a hard life, but viewed from the point of view of a child, my grandfather’s farm was a place of magic and wonder. I have tried to spend my life in surroundings that remind me of the farm. The experience of the small family farm is disappearing, but each day I try to recapture something of the feeling. I keep my garden wild, growing day lilies and Creeping Jenny at the edge of the lawn. I look forward to picking blueberries in the early days of August. And I roll down the car windows to catch the smell of new mown hay.
I wonder if your childhood included a farm and if you remember it well. Is the farm you knew still standing, or has it been abandoned with the years?
an old hay barn
nichepoetryandprose 