Discovering Wild Places

In the meadow: Bird Vetch, Vicia cracca

Wild Places

“The mind I love must have wild places,

a tangle orchard where dark

damsons drops in the heavy grass,

an overgrown little wood,

The chance of a snake of two,

 a pool that nobody's fathomed the depth of,

and paths threaded with flowers planted by the mind.”

Katherine Mansfield

I like to say it took five countries, 56 years, and over three million miles to connect the first and final “meadows” of my life. My wild places.

Spring 2021, Tahilla Farm

From my desk this morning, I look through four large casement windows, all wide open to a beautiful spring day. A stand of tall sugar maple trees, limbs naked, knotted, and intertwined, wait patiently for their late spring finery to unfold. Fields, the color of wheat with flecks of soft green, lap up to the edge of a pine woodland where a mountain peak stands in silhouette in the distance. This view is in a small rural town where I live in Peterborough, New Hampshire. 

Below my window, daffodils, crocus, and snowdrops are blossoming. Soon the wild heartbeat of our fields will transcend into lush green meadows. I can nearly feel the soft feathery tendrils of spring fern fronds as they unscroll to a new season and taste the tangy sweetness of blueberries and raspberries growing alongside our meadows in summer. The seasons are in motion as blue herons glide over the fields into the neighboring fly-fishing pond to enjoy a fishy morning treat.  

In the distance I spy our one-year-old dog, Tani, an energetic English Springer Spaniel, splashing in a small pool of muddy water where wild iris will soon grow. My husband, Mr. H, is coming up alongside him, a look of exasperation on his face, one I know well. 

It’s a windy day, deep melodic tones of a wind bell chime outside my window. The bells are meant to emulate the calm and reassuring sounds of buoys floating in harbors, seas, and oceans to assist navigating vessels to the dangers ahead. The wind chime, “Pemaquid”, named after Pemaquid, Maine, is a reminder of how far I traveled, to find our home, our country home, Tahilla Farm. 

Mary Poppins by P.L. Travers

Summer 1964, Let’s fly!

Have you ever wished you could fly? In 1964, I did. I was an active seven-year-old who yearned to fly like Mary Poppins. I imagine I was not alone in that quest. Julie Andrews charmed us as the effervescent Mary Poppins, singing and flying her way into our hearts. I knew after the first “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” that I was destined to be like Mary. One day, I tucked my Mary Poppins matching accessories under my arms; a magic carpetbag fashioned after an old Victorian rug of a bygone era, and my parrot head umbrella. I marched over to our backyard playset, determination in every stride. In my young mind, the playset was a similar height to a rooftop. With a swift backward then forward swing, I tossed both objects to the upper deck of the playset. I followed suit, climbing the ladder as quickly as my little legs would take me. My brothers and sister were standing below, between the ages of three and six, looking up, wide-eyed. I opened the umbrella, my right arm stretched out to the sky while clutching the carpet bag in my left hand. I called out “Watch me! I am going to fly like Mary Poppins!” and jumped. I did not fly up and off over the rooftops as I imagined. Instead, I landed with a big thud to the screams of my brothers and sister running to my mother to tell her what I had done. Thankfully, I lived to tell the tale.

Me in my red bathing suit, second left and my sister Carole Ann holding the balloon. 1960’s

We lived in a four-bedroom white shingled colonial home nestled into the woods in Manchester- by-the-Sea, Massachusetts. I still call it the “Bubble House” for the time my brother Charlie put an entire box of Mr. Bubble granules into the tub in the upstairs bathroom. Soon after, large shiny bubbles drifted out from under our front lawn, our septic system a bubbly mess. It was and still is one of the funniest memories of my childhood. I called the woods behind the house my secret woods. I often led a merry band of travelers into the woods: my sister Carole Ann, brothers, Tommy and Charlie, and our neighborhood friends; Lynne, Mark, and Laura.

During long hot summer days, my mother packed the car with brightly colored beach buckets, shovels, towels, and snacks. We were out of the car before she had a chance to put it in Park, running to rockpools at the far end of the beach to play “mermaid”. We covered our legs in long strips of yellow and green seaweed, dug for periwinkles, then perched on large rocks at the shoreline before slipping into the sea to swim.

Other days my mother would call out in the morning “Go outside and play and be back before dark. Take your brothers and sister with you.” With that, we would dip our hands one last time into the “magically delicious “ box of Lucky Charms cereal for a tiny soft marshmallow treat before slipping on our Keds sneakers at the kitchen door. Outside we called to our friends that we were ready to play.

We met and set off through a long grassy meadow that tickled our legs as we walked into a dense grove of tall and noble towering white pine trees. A few steps into the forest we came upon an aging, lichen-covered, old stone wall about three feet high and two feet deep. I would later learn the wall was built around a farm and interconnected with another stone wall; ultimately leading to thousands of miles of stone walls across New England, dating back to the 17th century. 

Just after the start of the stone wall, we slipped off our shoes, tucked them under our arms, and walked through the shallow depths of Wolf Trapp Brook, a small stream that rippled and meandered several miles to the North Shore of Massachusetts Bay, leading to the Atlantic Ocean. With every step along the shimmering stony brook, we started to tell imaginary tales of the Agawams, a tribe of the Algonquin Native American Indians who once roamed our ancient forest.

We wandered along the brook and searched the forest floor for sticks to use as fishing rods and smooth round stones for make-believe fires while intertwining soft green moss, sappy pine cones, and brightly colored maple leaves into our belts. We scouted the brook for curiosities, anything that would slither through our fingers: baby pollywogs, frogs, snakes and tiny brightly-colored salamanders. Dragonflies darted around us, skimming the water’s edge as we swatted mosquitos nipping at our ankles. We walked until we came to the heart of our journey, in our young eyes, the biggest pine tree in the forest. Graceful sweeps of long thick pine boughs hung down to the forest floor, a thick carpet of pine needles underfoot welcomed us as we crept through a small opening, a pine scent lingering as we passed. It was here that I felt an extraordinary presence. One that I hoped I would find again. My wild place.

1970’s, Windswept

We're only here for a minute.

We're here for a little window.

And to use that time to catch

and share shards of light

and laughter and grace

seems to me the great story.

~ Brian Doyle

Years later we moved up the lane, leaving our secret woods for another family to explore. Our family of six became a family of eight with the addition of my sister Kathleen and brother, Kenny. I was 14 years old when Kenny was born and well on my way to head babysitter. When I think back to my childhood, this is the house I loved, this is the time and place of my happiest family memories. This is when our family was complete.

I called our house the “Mistress House”. Story had it and I am not quite sure from where, the house was built in the early 1900s by a wealthy Boston businessman for the “other” woman in his life. Her name is a mystery but her allure lives on in my memory. It was easy for my teenage imagination to take hold of this story, to shape this woman in my mind.  I envisioned a Katherine Hepburn persona, 40ish, a well-educated, independent, breezy woman of spirit and determination at the turn of the 20th century. Perhaps she had a career of her own and this arrangement suited her just fine. I think of her, the woman of our “Mistress House” with a Katherine Hepburn demeanor, smartly turning to me to say “If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.”

Windswept, Manchester-by-the-Sea painted by my mother

My mother named the house “Windswept”  for the way the sand blew up the long and windy road from the sea to our driveway.  The house was built on a hill with an ocean view in the distance. It was a three-story colonial shingle house with six bedrooms, nine if you count the maid’s quarters. A carriage house was tucked away at the end of the driveway with an additional three bedrooms and living space. When it came to playing hide and seek with my siblings, the possibilities were endless.

My father bought the house sight unseen. Too busy to house hunt with my mother, he trusted her judgment. Within a few months, it was apparent that the house, while beautiful in historic detail needed a lot of work. Still, we were easily charmed by the spacious rooms with fireplaces throughout, window seats in bedrooms facing the ocean, a butler pantry with floor to ceiling built-in cupboards, a winterized ocean view sunroom with a wrap-around stone terrace beyond and secret passageways and hidden doors to entertain children for countless hours. It was a house in need of serious attention. The kind of repairs young children and adults never fully appreciate; a new roof, plumbing, and heating. Still, we loved it.

It wasn’t until my father discovered the wild and overgrown remnants of a forgotten garden that he truly became excited about the house.  Sweat on his brow, I found him one day standing between the rhododendron bushes, a cigarette gently hanging from his mouth, smoke trails drifting past him. Deep in thought, his dark hair standing up on end and his blue eyes shining brightly, he turned to me and pointed, “See that stone wall behind the tall grass, I bet it is the wall of a garden.” To me, it looked like a mass of weeds with a few rocks but I could sense that he was really excited.  His cigarette burned low, he dropped it underfoot and shuffled his foot over it. I stepped up to the cause “I can help, what do we need to do?”

We filled a wheelbarrow with cutting sheers, a shovel, rake and pushed along an old hand mower to the edge of the garden. My father worked with fervor, as every challenge on his shoulders, the kind an old house and six kids bring, slipped away as he shaped the garden. I remember watching him in awe, smiling at just how lucky I was to have this time with him. We clipped and heaved and tossed the overgrown weeds into the driveway below us. We then turned back to take stock of how far we had come. Each time, he unrolled his cigarette pack from the sleeve of his now soiled white t-shirt. My dad was a pack-a-day smoker back then, it was his signal to rest. If someone asked me to describe him at that moment, I say he had the air and quiet grace of Robert Mitchum with a touch of the mischievous Jack Nicholson. We soon shared a passion for gardening and a love for the old Hollywood classic movies. 

Once cleared, our garden spoke to us, I could sense the mystery mistress trying to say to us-  “You found it. You were the first to notice after all these years. I have been waiting. Thank you.”

Windswept, Secret Garden painted by my mother

An old stone wall framed the garden beds with antique roses planted around the perimeter.  Today, I imagine the pink flush of the fragrant climbing rose,  Zephrine Drouhin, introduced in 1868, or the pink cluster of the hardy Cecile Brunner  “Earth Kind Rose” introduced in 1881. I often wonder if the mystery mistress of the house had a hand in planting the roses all those years ago. We saved what we could and added more roses, hydrangea, gladiolus, catmint (Nepata), and zinnias. 

I think back to those days with my father and remember how precious they were. One-on-one time with a parent was rare in our house as there were too many kids to manage. An unruly circus was more like it. When we did have the time, it was a blessing.

My mother was always on the go. She loved to decorate and redecorate and then decorate again. There were countless times when we would come home from school to find her moving yet another piece of furniture from one room to the next and often times in various stages of pregnancy. She was determined to create a beautiful home and we reaped the benefits.

In the years that followed her talents flourished. Her children grew and so did she. With the youngest in primary school, she went back to her first passion, painting. She gave up painting when she married and we kept her too busy to devote any time to it. When she made the decision to paint again we were astonished as we had no idea that she had any talent other than looking after us. We arrived home from school one day to find our playroom moved to one side of the room and her art studio to the other. Her easel, paints, papers, and previous artworks were on display. She was starting to spread her wings and we were all tucked around her waiting and watching to see what would unfold.

We lived in the house for twelve years and alongside it spent many hours on my father’s true love, a 1957 41’ wooden Chris Craft powerboat, The Lady Alma, named after my mother. I never felt happier and freer than those teenage days when I sat at the bow of the boat, legs hanging over the edge, as my father opened up the boat full throttle. Holding onto the rail above, we would dip and rise, wind and water spraying over us, soaking us into shrills of laughter. 

It was from this house that I left home for the first and last time to go to college and start a career.  A year or two later my mother spread her wings and left too. People often ask why. I say that she married when she was twenty-one, had me at twenty-two, and six children by the time she was thirty. At forty, she wanted to find herself. She did. She flew off like Mary Poppins, leaving a houseful of children waving her off. After a long and difficult divorce, my parents each found another person to happily share their life with and married again. Our family of eight became an even livelier family of ten and then some.

It signaled the end of our family life in the mistress house, working in the secret garden and summer days soaked with shrills of laughter on the sea. Gone but not forgotten, each time I moved to a new home later in life, in the America and abroad, I would look to recreate fragments of our life at Windswept. A family home to cherish, a garden to love and a life filled with laughter.

Me, life by the sea, 1975.

Note:

Dear friends,

Thank you for reading along. This is Part I of my story, my childhood landscape of memory. If something resonates with you, I would love to know. I often feel we are kindred spirits, you and I. Writing and reading along over the years. I am hoping this might spark you to do the same. To think about your story, perhaps write or record it. The joys, the challenges, where you have been, where you want to go. How to make the changes to shift the narrative, to step in a new direction. Or…to stay just where you are, happily.

Best wishes for a thoughtful week,

Jeanne xx

PS… the early expat adventure begins next week in Part II.