Walking is my meditation. The rhythm of the steps, the slow passing by of scenery and people, the time alone to think, all bring me peace of mind. I needed some of this calming activity recently and was lucky to be where I could take one of my very favorite walks – down the lane on Whirlwind Hill.
“Lane,” Carol Crump Bryner, engraving, 1976
Starting at the barnyard across the street from the farmhouse, the rutted path we called “the lane” meandered past the cow pond and the stone walls and barbed wire fences that delineated the lane from the open fields, joined up with another lane called “Strawberry Hill,” and eventually ended at the property known as “Peterland.”
Unlike the romantic and sometimes dark and sinister country lanes of Miss Marple and Thomas Hardy, our lane was used mostly for business. It took cows and tractors and horses and farmers where they needed to go. It connected the pastures and the orchards to the barn. And it provided a pathway to the pond for children carrying their fishing poles or ice skates.
“The Lane to Peterland,” Carol Crump Bryner, colored pencil
But when fall comes each year I remember the walks we took with our great-grandfather, Joseph Biggs, who traveled from his home in Glastonbury, Connecticut to spend summer and fall weeks at the farm. He was a kind man with large hands and a bristly white mustache that tickled us when we kissed him hello. He smoked a pipe and wore suspenders. While he was at the farm he tended gardens, dried dishes, and entertained his great-grandchildren.
Me and Grandpa Biggs, summer 1947
If he visited in October, Grandpa Biggs did “nut duty.” We went with him when he walked down the lane to gather hickory nuts. Into our baskets we put the light brown gems that lay tucked among the fall leaves. Our grandfather Ellsworth let the nuts dry out in their baskets behind the kitchen’s wood stove. On winter evenings he sat in his rocking chair by the stove and cracked the hard little shells one by one with a hammer, then slowly picked out the sweet nutmeats and ate them as he rocked. No one seems to have the time to pick out hickory nuts anymore, but for my grandfather it must have been, like walking is for me, a kind of meditation.
Hickory nuts and shells
Over the years the old laneway has changed its course, but when I took my calming walk a few weeks ago, the trees still stood in their places to show the old route. Nuts continue to fall from their branches and add their bounty to the old path’s autumn tapestry .
Hickory nuts in the laneway, fall 2014
On Wednesday: Autumn Leaves
This needs to be a book I can hold in my hands. One that is not too small so that I can really see the details of the drawings and paintings. Sorry I missed seeing you Carol, while you were in Maine. Jeff was happy though to have time with you and Kirt. Next time you come our house should be complete and maybe more family living in Maine. Hello to your husband and family. Love Becky
Sorry to have missed you too, Becky. We had a lovely time with Ellen and Chuck and Jeff. Thanks for mentioning a book. It is always there in the back of my mind to eventually make a book.
“and maybe more family living in Maine” …. ?!?!? such an enticing phrase!
Any chance your sweet girl and family might be returning “down east”?!
Love to you, Becky.
Margy
PS: I am at the cottage. So loving my final days here. It has been glorious. Will likely do the drive home on the weekend. Glad you are home (tho I know they miss you over there).
Oh, the lane! You’ve captured it so well!! Many of my sweet memories of it, from when I was a girl, are from getting to walk it with you! Getting some special time from a grown up cousin meant so much!
The other fun thing is hearing about Grandpa Hall cracking nuts at night. My dad went through phases of bedtime snacks (for awhile it was sardines–ick) but the one I remember lasting the longest was cracking mixed nuts at our kitchen table. My mom would fuss a bit about the mess he was making. Now I know he was probably feeding his spirit as well his tummy as he carried on a tradition of his father!
So interesting about your dad cracking nuts before bedtime. It does sound like a family tradition. We do have so many sweet memories of the lane, and it was always fun to walk it with you.
I feel I ought to know this (think you’ve told me … ) but … why is the mysterious end-point of the lane called “Peterland”?
I’m not sure I do know this answer. Some of the “lands” on the farm were named, I think, after the people from whom they were purchased – like the Wadsworth Land, the Whittelsey Land, and maybe also the Orrin Land and Peterland. The only Peter I find in the immediate family is my uncle Aaron Peter Hall. So maybe there was a Peter there in the genealogy it could have been named after. Peterland is such a pretty place – you can see all over from its highest point. I think there were peach orchards there at one point, and cows were pastured there. My mom, when she was young, rode her horse down the lane to chase them back to the barn in the late afternoon
What wonderful images. Feels like fall walk! Thanks!
Pete’s grandfather, William Lum, built the cottage on the top of the hill which eventually became the home where we raised our family. He kept a series of horses in the little barn at the corner for many years. When he finally decided that keeping a horse was too much, he gave his last one to your mother. She often exclaimed how happy this made her and how much easier it was to fetch the cows home. Prior to this, she would walk all the way to Peterland. We also wondered where the name came from and exactly where the boundaries were.
Yes, my mom often talked about this horse, with much love. Somewhere I have a photo of her on that horse that Pete’s grandfather gave her. She looks so happy. It must have been a wonderful feeling to ride down to Peterland and bring the cows back without having to walk all that way.