Meet my dad. This one on the left is one of my favorite photos of him as a child. Of course, he doesn’t look very happy (but given that diaper, are you surprised?) The first time I saw this photo, I couldn’t understand how my grandma could let her kid play on a lawnmower. But look closely. It’s clearly built for children, but I’ve no idea what to call it. Suggestions?

My grandpa’s family hails from Freelandville, Indiana where I have a number of distant relatives still farming. Visiting the family farm where my grandfather grew up and my father spent his childhood summers was always a treat. As kids, we wore the blue and white striped overalls long before Osh Kosh B’Gosh became trendy kid wear. We played in corn harvesters, jumped from hay bail to hay bail, rode in huge farm equipment, teased goats, visited the baby pigs (And were corrected every time. Hogs, not pigs). But my favorite place of all was the chicken yard.

With a look of great tolerance, my distant great aunt would send my sister and me out to collect the fresh eggs (no doubt we ruined the egg collection for days). Then, when the task was done, we were finally allowed to put the chickens to sleep just like my father had taught us.

No. Not that kind of sleep.

As elementary school age kids, my sister and I ran beneath low-lying branches, scrambled behind bushes, caught the chickens one at a time. (Chickens are fast, they can turn on a dime, but we kept at it for as long as it took.)

We’d catch each chicken, gently tuck its head beneath a wing, gently clamp the wing down on its head, and swing the chicken slowly – back and forth like a pendulum. And the chicken would fall asleep. And stay asleep.

We lined them up, one at a time until only the swiftest of the swift chickens ran free. Then – as only grade school children can –  we’d scream at the top of our lungs. All at once the chickens would jump up, squawking and clucking and running for cover.

So Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thanks for the chicken lessons.

Last week a chipmunk, a few weeks before that a little brown mouse. (The cat was toying with it and when I rescued said mouse. Both he and I were convinced he was dead. Since there was no obvious injury, I carried him outside and as the shock wore off, mouse hopped to his feet, panted for a few moments, then ran off into the underbrush.)

This morning my eldest noticed a chittering sound and the cat pawing at a window. A baby wren (his tail was far too short to be an adult) was clinging to the inside of the screen. Somehow he’d managed to squeeze through a 1/2 inch opening, trapping himself between the screen and our closed window. Mom (or dad) was in the bush just outside the window hopping from branch to branch chittering his alarm/worry/displeasure at our presence.

My husband retrieved a scrap of material, I pushed open the window and caught the flapping baby in my hands. We zoomed through the house and out the front door. I held up the baby to his door and he hopped right back in the nest.

Not the best first day in flight school.

Here are the babies (you can see only one of three) as they were last week:

I sincerely hope our wildlife visitors don’t grow any larger.

Today, Darwin had an extra treat when one ventured inside the screened porch. This is what I found:

I opened the door wide and gave the chipmunk a little nudge. He didn’t need much convincing.

Bet he won’t be back.

I grew up in small town America. The oldest buildings here date to the Victorian era when Sayre, PA was a major railroad town. This bandstand, built in 1886, was painted white during my childhood and was a major destination during walks. At one point the bandstand had fallen into such disrepair that the platform was blocked by a chain. Happily, sometime in the 1990s there was a resurgence of pride in the Victorian heritage of my town and the bandstand (along with a number of other buildings) was refurbished and repainted. I have no childhood memories of a band ever playing here, but now there is a summer concert series that sets up and plays from this 124 year old structure.

And in the next town over, Waverly, NY, another smaller bandstand.

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Below is a montage of the doors I passed on a visit to Historic Deerfield. I’d love to show you the amazing interiors, but photographs are not allowed.

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Apparently they’re very rare and the chicks will not hatch (they can’t acess the air pocket when there are two in the egg). For way more info than you probably want, you can read Twin Yolks and Twin Chooks?

The kids thought it was pretty cool and the oldest had a lot of questions about twins… but no remorse about eating the fried egg.

They built an ell. It means exactly what it sounds like – the addition was built at a right angle to the original house forming an ‘L’. They didn’t always stop with just one addition – if the family grew, then so did the house.

During my trip to Historic Deerfield, MA earlier this spring, I took these photos of two houses with ells. I think it gives a rather rambling look to the house and makes me wonder why each addition always seems smaller….

As a writer, I like to think about the history behind why the additions were built and the conflicts it might have caused. Were the children separated from visiting adults? Were people sneaking around in secret passageways placed between the two structures? Did a new bride find herself under the thumb of her mother-in-law? Was a crazy old relative housed in the new attic?

What does the building of an ell make you think of?

In the photos below (taken at Old Sturbridge Village, MA), you can see a potter with wet hands turning what appears to be the beginning of a mug. The next step is to let the clay dry for several days before dipping it in a reddish brown glaze. When enough pottery is accumulated, it will be stacked inside the large kiln. The opening is bricked up and the pottery is fired by building a fire at the base of the kiln until a temperature of 1850 degrees F is reached. In the last photos, you see some of the finished products.

For more information about redware visit Old Sturbridge Village.

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