September is closing in and I can see clear to Indian Pond now; in the early morning I see the smoke from the Hanscom homestead chimney rise into the air. It is the time of year when the morning’s chill has to be eased with a small wood fire. I have the Ashley wood heater going in the kitchen and soon the warmth will spread as the kids rush down the stairs to catch the early morning school bus.

Soon they will be off and I will hold down the fort with the animals. It’s strange how I go from day to day concentrating on the inside of the farm, but not really noticing what is going on outside. Many a time I have glanced through the kitchen window and seen a new beast and wondered when it appeared on the range. It was as though Noah rounded up all the animals two by two, but there were spares and they landed in our pasture.

There was Toby, the horse, who came to live on the farm. Brian rode him the most, I think. I just know one day when we woke, he was lying on his side in the field behind the house, never to be ridden again. What about the day I arrived home from the grocery store to find the lamb..well, at that point a full grown sheep…lying on his side on the front lawn..never to bleat again.  One of my favorites was Jack, the burro. We even had a little saddle for him and somewhere there is a glorious photo of my standing next to Jack. I was wearing a very popular 1960’s paper dress. I know I never got on Jack’s back but guess I liked him well enough to have a photo taken with him. Same thing. Got up one morning and he was in the back yard as well.

By now, you are wondering what kind of curse existed around the old farm? I believe there had to be some poisonous plant the animals ate which must have killed them. I have no idea and at that time, we never thought of autopsies. I just knew every time another animal went down, I had four kids who were in the throes of grief for quite some time. Why none of the cows kicked up their hooves and perished is beyond me. But then, probably knowing cows, their stomachs are cast iron. (No, I don’t like cows..have I mentioned that?)

If there were one visitor to the farm I wish would kick up his spurs and die, it was the miserable old rooster. Now this bird came to the farm in a far more attractive state.  A friend asked if I had room for a little colored chick at Easter. Well, yes, what was one little chicken in all the flurry of our every day living. But that little colored chick slowly morphed into a big feathered bird from hell…The kids gave it a name, which I forget. Frankly, I had names for it and hopefully the kids never heard me when it was uttered.

I remember the evening the husband was gone and for some reason, I thought I should take something to the cows. I meandered out there, breathing in the sweet air of the mountain with my head somewhere in the clouds, delivered whatever I was carrying and was on my way back to the house, still with my head in the clouds. Out of nowhere I heard a screaming noise and suddenly I had a rooster attached to the back of one leg and he was hanging on with his spur. I screamed, danced a jig to rid myself of the crazed feathers to no avail. This was pure pain. In desperation, I grabbed a stick by the path and tried beating him off…I probably whacked him a dozen times and I guess the spur got tired or he became unhinged.  I had a bloody leg to show for it and swore if it happened again, I personally would do him in. He contributed nothing to the farm. I can’t remember that he even crowed to wake us up in the morning. A parasite with feathers, I always thought. I prayed for that rooster to be on his side some morning when I awoke. It never happened. We don’t have that rooster any more. I don’t know what happened to him and I don’t care. That was the end of my good deed of adopting Easter chicks.

Cats! Oh, Lord, we have barn cats. I have almost lost count of how many we have. Some come in the house to eat; others stay outside most of the time. They’re good company…don’t say much and don’t argue back. Occasionally I get a dirty look and a couple might get to a hair raising stage, but no fights.

So it is peaceful this September day. The house is quiet with all the kids gone and time passes slowly, it seems, until I get accustomed to their leaving. It is an early morning for them, having to be at the bus stop before seven. Around three this afternoon, I will be watching as they come up the hill, school papers waving in their hands to show me and tales of the day.

The dog will bark her welcome; the farm will come alive again.

 

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