A Tahilla Tale...
Tahilla Farm Diary
Summer of 2013
“So, I hear these strange noises" is how the conversation might begin. "I know it sounds a little "woo woo," but I hear unexplainable sounds coming from the fireplace.” I wonder if I should tell him that I tried recording the sounds with my phone up the chimney to prove I wasn’t imagining noises.” If only it had worked. I pause as I say this aloud to no one but myself. Exasperated, I sigh, "Ugh, how do I say it so I don't sound like a crazy woman?"
A minute later, the doorbell rings, "Here we go," I say aloud as I quickly walk and then glide across the old polished wood floors in my socks, coming to a complete stop before catching my breath and opening the front door.
I size up the man in front of me. Tall, slim, greying at the temples, fine line etched lines around his warm brown eyes. He smiles as I welcome him in, saying, "Hello, thank you for coming." His name is Christopher, and he specializes in restoring old fireplaces. We continue with the usual chat. "So you know Hugh,” I say, “I hear you worked wonders on his fireplace." "Yes,” he says, “That was a challenging project.” I wonder what he will think of mine.
The chitchat continues because that’s what we do in our neck of the woods, where everyone knows everyone. He explains that he has been restoring fireplaces for over 30 years and recently took on his son as an apprentice. I am guessing he is in his mid to late 60s and starting to think about what comes next. He is around the age when one considers life beyond the job. I laugh to myself, thinking that he will probably tell me he has a little place up north in Maine. I hear it often from tradesmen and marvel at the thought. He says, “My wife and I have a cabin in the woods in Maine; it is so peaceful. I hope my son will take over the business one day so we can retire there.”
I am always confused by this statement, “I live in the woods of New Hampshire and want to retire to a quiet place in the woods of Maine?” In my mind, you can't get any quieter than the woods of New Hampshire. But I haven't lived in New Hampshire long, and maybe one day, I will feel differently.
We turn to walk through the kitchen. It feels comfortable, like sliding on warm slippers on a chilly morning. I notice my coffee cup on the edge of the sink below the kitchen window; the deep, rich aroma of ground coffee beans still lingers in the air. A bird flies past the window, no doubt on its way to the flowering cherry tree in the forgotten garden, a tangled web of wildflowers, peonies, lavender, boxwood, and other unidentifiable plants long overgrown since the previous owner sold the house. I understand she passed away a year before we bought it. The garden needs love again.
It is my first summer in our new home, and I am itching to get into the garden to unearth its botanical mysteries. Under the cherry tree rests a small granite stone in a patch of violets that reads, Fenton, Ever Faithful. I was told Fenton was the previous owner’s cat. I wonder if Fenton is a ghost in the house, perhaps with the previous owner. Maybe they are making noises. I tell myself I really must stop thinking this way.
I ask Christopher to mind the ceiling as we walk past the kitchen counter topped with assorted kitchen appliances and packing boxes. “Excuse the mess.” I say, "We bought the house six months ago for a summer home and are just settling in.” He follows me, his head slightly bent to miss the wood beams on our kitchen ceiling. I wince a bit, the ceiling is low, maybe just under 7 feet in parts, reminiscent of many old farmhouses. I feel guilty when I see Christopher stoop even further. My husband and sons are tall, up to 6'5". I am guessing Christoper is maybe 6'2".
My husband hasn't seen the house yet; he works overseas and will visit next month. Christopher and I step up from the kitchen into the old section of the house; just as I turn to tell him to be mindful of the low door frame (another thing I neglected to tell my husband), he hits his head with a thud as we pass. I apologize for the house, as I would when one of my children acted up. I look up and see a faint red bruise swelling on his forehead. I make a mental note to find an architect sooner rather than later.
Quickly changing the subject, I mention we have five fireplaces, and none of them work for one reason or another. The point of his visit is the old fireplace in the keeping room, built in 1790. And then I say it. “I hear sounds, strange sounds, coming from the fireplace.” I can feel my face flushing at the awkwardness of the statement. Christopher listens intently, with no hint of laughter in his eyes. He asks what it sounds like. I say, "It sounds like something slithering or fluttering." I go on, "I was in the basement the other day and spotted old snakeskins in the corner of the room. Do you think we have snakes living in the chimney?" There, I said it and shudder at the thought of it.
Christopher, sensing my genuine concern, suggests we explore the basement. Relieved, I say, "I just want to warn you, I spread a few boxes of mothballs in the basement.” I smiled sheepishly. “I read that they deter snakes.” I wonder if they deter ghosts too.
The air felt damp and cool in the basement; one wall is a haphazard framework of old stone. I stand by the steps as he walks around and assesses the situation. He turns and smiles, “The good news is that you do not have snakes in your chimney and explains that the noises are connected to our heating system vented through the fireplace.” I am visibly relieved. “The bad news is that you cannot use your fireplace until you redirect your heating system.” He explains the process as we walk back to the keeping room and shows me which walls must be opened up to access the stonework to be rebuilt.” I am nearly dizzy at the enormity of the project but more relieved to know I will finally get a good night’s sleep.
Noises explained, no snakes.
For now.
#beginagainwriting11
