November 13, 2020
This week, Anne and I rebuilt the bridge that crosses Hill-Stead's farm road. We constructed the original bridge almost 20 years ago - and I swear (since I am certain that neither Anne nor I have aged in those 20 years) that the white oak timbers have gotten considerably heavier, the lag screws we used to hold it together have gotten a whole lot longer, and the onlookers and people walking by have grown significantly more cheerful. I am not sure which of these was most annoying, but regardless, we got it done - and if it rots out again in another 20 years - I'm quite sure people can find another way to get down to the barns.
My nephew, Dave, called to say he'll be home for a couple weeks and is looking for work. Why he waited until we were done with the bridge to tell me that is something I'll certainly ask him. Whenever he calls to say he will be back home, I tell him “excellent! I have just the thing!” with which he feigns concern and says “oh dear, did I say I was coming home? - my mistake, I think I'll spend Thanksgiving in Uganda” - but he doesn't and he's always a very good sport about whatever I put him to work doing.
This “vacation” he'll be helping with what would be called in farming parlance “pasture subdivisions” which is, just as it sounds, adding interior fencing to break the pasture up into smaller pieces to facilitate better control of the animals and of the grazing conditions in each area. Dave, however, refers to it as “Swamp Fencing” and I just call it “trolling for ticks.”
When my grandfather died at 47, he left behind 8 children, and his brother, who lived next door, took it upon himself to keep the 4 teenage boys (my uncles) busy. They painstakingly mapped out the farm, laid out roads, planted trees, built bridges, dug ditches, and cleared brush (which actually I think is just a euphemism for periodically setting fire to the forest under story – with varying degrees of adult supervision and success) - but I think more than anything else, they spent their summer “vacations” building stonewalls. Miles and miles and miles of stonewalls.
So as my nephew Dave and I fight the underbrush (without the assistance of explosives or pyrotechnics), we will pay homage to my uncles, and their uncle as well, as we roll out our fencing up and over their stone walls.