Beenut Milk

Our Jersey Cow at the New Hampshire homestead was named Beenut. She was more beautiful than a cow should be...dark blonde with big brown eyelashes.

Here is a gorgeous photo of a Jersey that looks like what I remember.

I can see a jug of her milk, still warm, on the worn counter in the old farmhouse. The cream is separating into a thick band at top. Soon we will start the endless yet rewarding task of churning butter.

But before Beenut there was...Beenut. Now this is a sad little thing to remember as an adult, but as a small child it was quite fascinating.

For one day only we had our first cow named Beenut. Buddy brought her home late one night before he had prepared a place for her in the barn. Mom had spent all the money she had in the world on this cow, $500.00. Considering that we lived on less than that in a year's time, it was pretty shocking to lose her.

There was an uneasy feeling the morning after we got Beenut. The air was crisp and damp as usual, but filled with a deafening silence. The adults hurried around not paying attention to me. I think it was Walt who shouted that the cow had jumped off the bridge. We all ran up the road to look. Down by the creek lay the distorted figure of the first Beenut.

Buddy had staked her in the yard like a dog. He gave her a bucket of water and planned to put her away the next day. For someone who typically had a lion's share of common sense, this was incredibly stupid. The neighbor's horses had gotten loose and scared the poor cow, forcing it into the ravine. I cannot imagine the shock and loss that mom felt.

Our second Beenut was the one I really remember. I sat on her only once to know why people don't ride cows. Mom let me try milking her, but I was just not coordinated or strong enough.

She was a sweet cow that gave delicious milk. Mom loved her.

If Beenut was ready for milking before mom had gotten to her, she would knock on the kitchen door. One time she was found eating the heirloom gladiola bulbs that were wintering in the woodshed. But my favorite story of her is not in my memory at all.

One day mom was left to do all the chores by herself. Running a self sufficient farm alone was an impossibly exhausting task. Mom said there were days that she worked so hard she would have to stop and rest on the spot, or nap in the field to keep from collapsing.

The air was chilly and dusk was threatening. It was time to put Beenut up for the night. She was laying in the grass near the carriage house chewing serenely. It was all mom could do to go over and sit beside her for a rest before the short walk to the barn. She laid her head on Beenut's warm belly. Soon the grass turned forest green, then black as the light faded. Rocked by the rhythm of Beenut's steady breathing, mom fell into the secure and satisfying sleep of a babe in arms.

I cannot tell you why that makes my head swell with tears. I picture my young strong mother with her thick long dark hair asleep with her pretty cow in the grass.

It is something I never had that I want so much to never lose.

The Silver Box

     Buddy and I  crouched in the breezeway of the old farmhouse. This one-on-one attention from him was strange and a bit scary.  Mom's boyfriend was a very intense man. He had the body and temperament of an overly stretched rubber band.  I listened intently as he spoke. "You must keep this a secret. We will work on this together. It is better to put thought and effort into a gift instead of spending money."

      Money wasn't something we had anyway. I didn't know or care. Living on the farm was rich with new experiences and the type of wealth that has nothing to do with money. We had food to eat, clothes to wear and a warm place to sleep at night. Simple. Beautiful.

     The theme that permeated every minute of every day was that of economy and self reliance. Nothing was ever wasted, and what was gained was only through hard work. One day Joseph (Buddy's son) and I tore pages from a coloring book to make a pretend fire. We wadded the pieces and threw them under a quilting frame because it looked like a fireplace to us. We were pretty proud of ourselves. When Buddy saw what we had done, all our toys were taken away for a long time. I never wasted anything after that. 

      From behind his back Buddy produced a small dingy object for me to see.  Mom's birthday was approaching and this would be her gift. He handed me an old toothbrush with some goop on it and showed me how to polish the box. As I scrubbed,  ornate details of silver scrollwork emerged from the tarnish of ages. An old silver soap box eventually came back to life...and what? I don't remember. Did I give it to mom? Where is it now? Not important.

     I remember the important things from the experiences. 

Waste Nothing. Use Thought and Effort.

The Two-Seater

     I was in a restaurant one time in a small town in Arizona. It was one of those home-cookin'-ma-and-pa types. As I reached to open the bathroom door, an old woman and her daughter opened it and walked out. She chuckled as she told me it wasn't a "two-seater" and added "you are too young to know what that means!" 

 

As a child, I wasn't the least bit bothered by the lack of indoor plumbing at the Cooley Farm. It's probably because everything was so well done. We did have a hand pump that brought up water from the well in the kitchen. I do not remember bathing, except in the creek, which pleased me to no end. And the two-seater was very clean.

A breezeway had been added on to the farmhouse at some point and this attached to the indoor outhouse. Sounds smelly, I know, but it wasn't. Someone knew what they were doing. I think it sloped and drained away from the house.  It had two holes cut in the bench so two people could go at the same time.

My best memory involves two colors; Cobalt blue, and Whelp red. The interior of the outhouse was painted a brilliant, cheerful Cobalt. The "Whelp red" was from the butt comparison that Walt and I did in the outhouse one day after a good switchin' by mom and her willow branch.

Dump Shopping

     We lived on very little money in New Hampshire. Most things we needed were created on the homestead or bartered for with neighbors. Cordwood was traded for gasoline to put in the car we rarely used. We went to a community center and traded clothes with other families. We made old things new. 

     Another thing we did is what I like to call "dump shopping." It is pretty self explanatory. It wasn't the sort of smelly dump that you might think of. I would have remembered a bad smell. What I do remember is enormous piles of stuff mixed in with sticks. maybe it was going to be burned. We crawled across the treacherous mounds of tangled trash and found treasures to take home.On one occasion, Walt found many pieces of a metal Erector Set, and I found a damaged dollhouse.

         I was too young to understand how this might have been perceived by the world. It was like going shopping, only I could actually HAVE anything I could find. 

     I have more to say about this, but the words aren't coming. Part of me, a big part, misses that freedom. Freedom from shame.  Freedom from societal pressures.  The freedom of a VERY simple life.

The Bridge House

Through a tunnel of gold, rust, and red foliage I saw the Bridge House for the first time. Sitting on the right hand of the road, it was cradled by birch and sugar maple trees and surrounded by a thick stone wall of about three feet high. 

We entered the house from one of the ends that had been boarded up, and a door added. I think the other end had a window. Inside it was dark and hard to see. As my eyes adjusted, I could see there stretch a loft above and a rough wooden floor below. 

I sat on a creaky wooden chair in the kitchen spot with my mittens still on and spied the stone wall outside. I wasn't looking through a window. I was looking through the gaps in the weathered wooden boards that made the old covered bridge. I thought for sure I would freeze to death in this place. But like most homes in the area, the Bridge House was equipped with a wood burning stove that made everything toasty. It was very much like being in a barn-sans the animal smell. On days when the sky was clear and bright, the open slits allowed the sun to squeeze its blinding beams across the floor in a stripped pattern.

The creek may have been diverted, because the bridge no longer sat on water. But more than likely, the entire bridge had been moved by some historical landmark lover or an artsy, frugal hippy. Whoever spent the time to do such a thing has my gratitude. It was the sort of experience one reads of in fairy tales, and for several years, drawings of the Bridge House flowed from my hand. 

 

Flying Jack O Lantern

Walt and I had been at the  bass pond examining the work of the beavers that lived there. The pond was at the Cooley homestead, just up a winding dirt road on the property. It was late October, brown leaves crunched under foot. I was imagining my teeth aching from chewing the trees to make logs for a dam, glad not to be a beaver. Besides, I was a groundhog, and everybody knew it. (That's another story)

In just a few days it would be Halloween. 

We had been told the scariest story. I didn't really believe it, but I was a little worried. Thirty four years have passed now, so I don't remember really what I was told, but I do remember it was about the Flying Jack O Lantern. 

On Halloween night, it was said he flew through the air looking for... something. Was it his lost love? His body? Or was it children who weren't in bed? Whatever he was looking for, he searched from the flaming eyes of a fiery carved pumpkin.

Halloween came. I was a gypsy. This was an easy costume to assemble: one of mom's thin cotton tapestry skirts, a few bangles, bells and a red headscarf. Trick-or-treating was a bust. We walked far to get to houses only find no one there, or no one expected us. One house improvised and handed us each some dimes. We were grateful, because that is how we were raised.

Soon after we had gone to bed, there was a commotion. Mom hollered up to us, saying she thought she saw something out the window, and began thumping up the wooden stairs to our adjacent rooms. Suddenly a blazing face swept across the floor-to-ceiling window in my room! I was paralyzed with fright! 

Mom came running in and scooped me up. The Jack O Lantern swam in the blackness  back and forth in the windows in Walt's room. We all began running back and forth, screaming, half-laughing, and chasing it from room to room. 

After a few minutes of terror and excitement, the searching pumpkin head disappeared forever.

Anyone who has known me more than a year, knows that Halloween is my favorite holiday. I have no doubt that the Flying Jack O Lantern planted that seed! 

Kurt and I have enjoyed Halloween together these past 10 years....

2003 The Duke and Duchess of Death (my favorite)

2004

2005 Banshee and Tree from the forest.

Kurt is on stilts, his face is barely visible in the leaves.

2006

2007  Halloween, we carved pumpkins with Walt and his kids in West Virginia.

Kurt transformed Marshall's stroller into a coffin.

Banging Down the Bees

By the time we had spent a few months in New Hampshire, I had made peace with bees in general. It was explained that bees don't just ATTACK people unprovoked. Apparently, when my little friend from Florida wanted to show us how harmless her grandpa's bee hive was, and she flipped the lid off the top, that was called "provoking." 

There is still a vivid memory of mom's face with a look of terror as she flung open the door to see her two little ones screaming, being chased and stung by a swarm. She beat at her long, thick hair to kill the bees that tangled there as she rushed us inside. My brother and I shared a shivering, sniffling bath of baking soda as we examined our head-to-toe whelps.

At the Stone Farmhouse, old Bud Stone kept bees in his attic. I suppose it was as good a place as any to keep bees.  Their flight path was very high in the air, so there was not much contact with them. Plus, he could walk upstairs to easily harvest honey . I can recall a quart jar with a draining piece of honeycomb on the window sill in the kitchen, a bee suspended in the amber liquid. I waited as patiently as I could for a piece to chew on, enjoying the initial jolt of sweetness all the way to the soft, barely sweet, waxy gum. 

One day there was a lot of commotion. The adults had gone mad! Excited voices called everyone outside. They were under the attic window banging loudly on pots and pans. I couldn't imagine what it was all for at first, but then I felt the fat dark raindrops hitting my head. Bees were falling from the sky like rain. When they fell, they seemed disoriented and would roll around a little to get right again. The bees were confused and stumped...but that was the point. 

The banging kept them from organizing. A new queen had hatched and her followers were gathering in a nearby maple, wanting to form their own hive.  We banged and banged until a neighbor was able to come and remove the extra queen and provide a place for the bees to relocate.

 

Gathering Mushrooms

 The drizzly rain softened the layers of fallen leaves, making the ground feel spongy and hollow. My chilly red nose was filled with the clean, refreshing  smell of rich black earth. Tromping around in the woods was high adventure. This day, we were looking for mushrooms around our New England homestead. We were not disappointed.  

High on the side of a sugar maple tree clung several large shell-shaped mushrooms. They looked like stair steps, perfect for a squirrel to use...if a squirrel needed steps. We pulled them down and examined them. One side was woody feeling and the other was soft. Mom showed me how to take a sharp twig and press it into the soft side to draw on it. We stood around making marks on the mushrooms until there was no drawing space left on them. These were not edible mushrooms, of course. I took some home to draw on later.

Further into our wooded walk we came upon a frilly log. It appeared frilly because it was covered with bright orange mushrooms.

 

These were called chicken mushrooms. 

Now, adults often think it is funny to tease a child with lies, so I was reluctant to believe this mushroom was really called a chicken mushroom.  Mom assured me it was so, and she always respectfully never teased. We put them in a sack and continued to explore.

Our final harvest was a mushroom that grew on another fallen mossy log. It was white and not as frilly as the chicken mushroom. It was an oyster mushroom.

On the way back from the walk I hadn't made my mind up to actually eat our harvest. This was like no other food I had ever eaten, or even seen. But mom knew me, and injected enthusiasm and adventure in the prospect of trying something new. I was primed and ready by the time we reached home.

We took our sack of chickens and oysters back to the farmhouse and spread them out on the enamel tabletop. A little time was spent brushing the mushrooms clean of rotted wood and slicing them to a uniform cooking size.

I loved helping to build the fires in the cast iron cook stove. It was a monster black beauty that heated quickly, but needed plenty of attention. There is a real art to cooking on one of these. We tossed the mushrooms in a hot black and buttered skillet where they sizzled and softened in no time.

If these mushrooms had not tasted better than anything I had eaten by the ripe old age of four, maybe I would have forgotten this experience. But they were delicious beyond description. I couldn't wait to go mushroom hunting again.

Sometimes I feel I should end every entry I make about our homesteading experience with three words..."Thank you, Mom."

Jane's Clean Dirt Floor

On our way to Jane's, we passed Barkley coming toward us. Barkley was the funniest animal I had ever seen. He was the neighbor's friendly Basset Hound. I could not suppress my giggles at his droopy eyes and drunken walk. He sat on the side of the road, clearly torn between following us and continuing his original direction. Once decided, he left us with the wag of his tail and a "Bar-Rooh!"

 

Outside of Jane's place was a fenced area containing animals. I watched with bossy disapproval as Walter teased a ram. Walter is my older brother and I usually disapproved of everything he did. The ram did what rams do and rammed the wire fence to try to get to Walter. This was terrifying to me. The fence kept stretching with each attack, but fortunately, it held. 

Jane was a friend of mom's. Her picture in my memory is a pleasant one. She wears a long heavy dark skirt and long brown hair passed her full hips. She is smiling, her chocolate colored eyes twinkle with warmth and kindness. She laughs easily. 

How old was the one room cabin that Jane lived in? It must have been one of the first homes in the quiet area of Warner, New Hampshire.  Herbs were hanging from the ceiling to dry and there was a cast iron wood stove where she did her cooking.  I can vaguely see a patchwork quilt on her rumply (probably feather) bed. It was quite dark, lit with only kerosene lamps, and had a dirt floor. Jane would sweep the floor. This took some explaining for my four-year-old self to understand. Apparently, the dirt compacts into an almost cement like surface, and it can be swept clean.

Sweet Grass and Sick Hot Hay

A continuation of the post titled "Mercy"

  sweet grass...

    The grassy areas surrounding the farm were littered with (what I call) chamomile grass. When I walked my little bare feet in the fields, the smell of honey and apples would spring from the earth. This chamomile grass had a wonderful, soft feel, almost like a tiny, fuzzy succulent. I can't help but smile when I smell chamomile. (hey, that rhymes, if you pronounce it wrong!)

sick hot hay...

I grumpily skulked along side the wagon. All the adults were in the field with pitchforks in hand. A number of days before, the hay had been cut and left on the ground to dry. 

Today was the day it needed to be moved to the barn for storage. The sun was hot, the air was muggy, and our activity was sending the bugs flying angrily in the air and around my face. I couldn't have been more miserable!

I watched as the adults threw forkfuls of hay into the wagon, first filling the corners and then the middle. This enabled them to stack it very high before taking it back to the barn. There they would again use their forks to unload it. It was a time consuming process that was an eternity to my four year old self. 

I wondered why I was even there. It could have been because all hands were needed for the work, which left no one to look after me. It could have been to teach me my place in the world, to pluck out any seed of entitlement that might have begun to take root in my soul.

  

The smell made me feel sick. The sun baked the grass until the sweetness was overpowering. Its rays reflected off the dry grass, burning my eyes. I will never forget that day. 

For years and years, after leaving New Hampshire, I couldn't bear to look at a sunny field. It does sound silly, I know, but it is true. Riding in the car, passing a sunny field, would strike a chord of dread in me. My eyes would fervently search for the shade of a tree to counteract the effect.

 I am amazed that I live, and love living, in Arizona. The sun always shines. I think it has forgiven me for hating it all those years.

When I studied with The School of Natural Healing, working to become a Master Herbalist, I had a question answered that had been in the back of my mind since that hot hay day. We studied the chemical constituents of many herbs.

Coumarin was the answer. 

It is the constituent responsible for the sweet smell of freshly cut grasses.