“The Little House,” Carol Crump Bryner, 2013
When the little house moved from the glen to the hill, it left its bottom behind. The 1912 foundation was made from the large and abundant stones that both plagued and blessed most Connecticut farmers. The unending supply of rocks made difficult the plowing and planting of the fields, but easy the building of the walls. My great-grandfather William recorded “picking stones” as a frequent activity in the fields. The little house’s rocky footprint is still visible and accessible.
Kirt Crump at the glen house foundation, 2013
Yards away from the foundation sit two boulder-like stones. They cover an old well and keep animals and people from plunging into its depths.
Well stones, 2013
Sometime between 1925 and 1943 my grandfather and his helpers lifted the little house off its stone base, transported it through the orchard, and positioned it on a new cellar at the top of the farm’s hill lot. Red painted, white trimmed, and dormered, the little house seemed a cousin to my own house – the one my father built in 1946 on Center Street in Wallingford, Connecticut. I couldn’t find a photo of the little house on the farm, but you can get an idea of how it looked from this picture of my own childhood home.
The Crumps’ house on East Center Street, 1947
The little house on the hill was a dollhouse compared to the big farmhouse. In winter we climbed the pathway from the farmhouse driveway to the top of the hill. We borrowed big pots from my grandmother, saved pieces of cardboard from Christmas presents, gloated over new “flying saucers,” and fought over the prime sledding transport – the “Radio Flyer.” We took turns going up and down all afternoon with the promise of popcorn and hot chocolate in the farmhouse kitchen afterwards. The hill was short, but mighty. We often poured water on it to freeze a faster ride. Now, in my dotage, I feel sorry for my aunt, uncle, and cousins who had to walk up and down that hill after a Sunday afternoon of sledding. Ice is better for sitting down than for standing up.
Sledding on the hill, 1950’s
In 1943 my mother’s older brother Francis married Glenna and brought her to live in the little red house on his parents’ farm. My cousin and his family live there still.
Francis and Glenna Hall, 1943
In summer we walked up the hill to the red house in sweaty pursuit of popsicles. Our Auntie Glenna led us down the cellar steps into the cool dirt-floored basement and opened the lid of the deep freeze to find the fruity popsicles nestled in their metal beds. Our mothers made their own popsicles – grape, strawberry, orange, and lime. But Auntie Glenna’s tasted best. Care was taken not to stick a tongue onto the frozen metal mold. It was so tempting. Maybe that hint of danger, and the descent into the dimly lit cellar made the treat more special – or maybe it was the warm and cheerful welcome we always got from our sweet Auntie Glenna.
“Grape Popsicle,” Carol Crump Bryner, 2013
On Monday: Corn
I loved visiting Auntie Glenna–she was always so happy to see us, it seemed, from the time we were little until her later years and I was home visiting from college or my new home in Ohio.
I’m so intrigued about the thought of moving houses. I live on a small farm in Ohio now, in a Sears “Honorbuilt” home that was ordered from a Sears catalog in the early 1930’s. Alll the precut parts and pieces were delivered by train and then hauled several miles by horse drawn wagon from the train station. To make room for it though, they moved the 1830 small farmhouse off its foundation to new site across the driveway where it still sits today. Moving a house seems like a really big deal, but, in our case, maybe not as big as digging a new cellar. The new location had a foundation just high enough to clear the ground while ours has a nice walkout basement due to the slope of the land. In Connecticut, on Whirlwind Hill was it a status thing to becloser to the farm and the road? The glen would probably be the location of choice today. Was the glen adequate for a working hand but not for a young farmer and his bride?? Interesting questions!
Yes – very interesting questions. Although I think the place where the house now stands was an orchard at the time, and maybe they wanted the little house farther away. The gutter always seemed a pretty, but kind of dark and spooky place. And maybe after they started using it as their “dump,” that spot for a house seemed a little confined.
Auntie Glenna was always so fun to visit. Whenever I came east, she would make me a pie. And she got out toys for my kids when they came along.
You’re creating a real treasure, for your family to enjoy for generations to come. Wonderful!
Thanks, Allen!
ok. now I’m going to have to drive up there to see the Little House’s foundation. I missed that one last time. (Is your early Center Street home still there? What #?) And … most importantly … : o) … so, did you pop those popsicles out of the metal molds to eat them? (And then maybe reinsert the stick?) How did that work? Mom made ours, too, but by the time I came along we had plastic molds. Hmmm … though I do remember collecting popsicle sticks and sticking them into each divided section of an ice cube tray. Way less cool than the molds Glenna had.
Yes, the Center Street house is still there, but it’s now painted a light blue, something Kirt and I complain about every time we drive past. We loved that little house. It was just perfect for a young family, and the backyard and neighborhood were such fun for children.
Somehow, we warmed up the backs of those metal molds, then eased the whole popsicle out, pushing the stick up through the hole. Maybe Auntie Glenna did it for us, but it never seemed very hard to do. Although I have to say that the sticks never seemed quite adequate to the task of holding up those heavy popsicles. You had to eat them fast!
Oh, that little house on the hill. Of course! I always liked the way it perched above the road. There was a great tradition of moving buildings that we have largely lost in our disposable society. It is amazing how many were relocated throughout New England. I like the fact that there is a cellar hole whose history is known, unlike so many that you stumble across in the woods.
I was struck by the snowy scene of sledding down to t he farm house. Whirlwind Hill offered many excellent sledding spots and yours was obviously very well used and enjoyed. What fun to share it with the cousins. Dave and I set up a run down the field to the west of our house and enjoyed it for several years. As we got older, though, it felt pretty tame so we moved a few rocks from the wall at the lower edge and propped up the lowest strand of the barbed wire fence. If you got up a good head of steam and were accurate, you could make it under the fence and into the field above Whirlwind Hill Farm. On the best icy days, you could then fly down that last steep section and hope that you could stop before hitting the barbed wire fence at the bottom. We probably only used this run a few times because the conditions had to be just right, but it stands out large in my memory. Thanks for stirring all these memories up.
The sledding was always made more exciting by the fact that there wasn’t always snow there. You’re right about the conditions. They had to be just so for the maximum ride. I also remember trying to ski on wooden skis that attached to my feet by little ropes. Not the best way to learn how to ski.
Love red houses! Do you have any idea how your grandfather and co lifted the little house to move? That’s such a short sentence and such a big deal. I love the Michael Foster sledding story.
One of the best things about doing this blog is hearing stories from readers and having readers raise questions I hadn’t thought about before. The moving of the house must have, indeed, been a big deal, and I have no idea how it was done. I’m surely going to ask around next time I go to Connecticut to see if any of the cousins have info about that.
And I, too, love red houses. My father said it was a nuisance to keep it painted, because the red paint faded so badly, but keep it painted they did. We lived in our little red house for 15 years, and it was painted many times.
I know that Jill’s grandfather moved several buildings using fairly simple tools and oxen. The kitchen in her grandparent’s house was once an ice house, for instance, that he dragged up from the end of the lake and attached to the house. The wall between that room and the next is about a foot thick as a result. I think he used one or more carts to do this, but he may have just used logs as rollers. I inherited the screw jacks he used and moved two former cottages to different locations on our property. Jacking up two corners six inches at a time, we stacked six by sixes about three feet long under each corner. When the building was about three feet off the ground, a trailer was backed under it. We lowered the building onto the trailer, chained it down and then hauled it away with a big truck. I had made piers of concrete in the new location, so the building was backed into place over them and the process was reversed. This method was slow, but effective. It would certainly be more daunting to think about moving something as big as the little house.