Randy Fitzgerald

As happens almost every spring, the parents of a graduating senior at UVA asked this year if they could borrow our little four-room farmhouse up near Charlottesville for this past weekend’s graduation festivities

            We are always happy to put it to use for graduation, because Charlottesville is a madhouse during that particular weekend. Not only do parents and friends of graduates have a terrible time finding available accommodations, but it’s also practically impossible to get a dinner reservation. The people who stayed at our Keswick farmhouse this year had put their name in the hat six months ago, and Barb had written them the necessary letter explaining in advance some of the “hardships” they might encounter during their stay at Dove Cottage.

            She pointed out that the farm has no telephone (and that cell phone reception is generally pretty lousy there). She mentioned the lack of a television (or an antenna, dish or cable line to accommodate one, should a guest expect to carry in their own).  She noted that there is no computer, and that one cannot be used there because there’s no useable phone, computer hookup or wireless system anywhere for miles.

            She mentioned that there was only one bedroom, one bath, and that the two sofa beds were not remarkably comfortable. And, oh yes, if you leave the screen door open, the occasional possum might wander in.

            She encouraged our guests to bring drinking water, alerting them to the existence of a well and the possibility of rusty-looking water for the first few hours of their stay.

She warned them to make a tick check at the end of each day, if they were inclined to walk about in the fields and woods. 

            “Lordy,” I said, reading over her shoulder. “This doesn’t sound like a place I’d like to visit.”

            She had forgotten to tell the family about the wonderful view of the mountains, about the deer that gather in the meadow each morning, of the absolute peace and quiet there. She didn’t mention the hammock or the front porch swing, the comfy sofas that you can put your feet on, the hundreds of books throughout the house, the millions of stars in the night sky when there are no city lights to compete. She forgot to talk about breakfast on the screened porch, lunch under a big maple in the yard, and the blackberries that grow wild down by the spring branch.

            Even I almost forget from one year to another how splendid the country is for at least three seasons of the year. But each spring when we go there to open up the house, I draw in my breath when I step out of the car, and I can almost taste the fresh air.  Opening the house for the summer is not a quick job because first you have to undo all the winter preparations you made last fall. Cutting the water back on usually involves priming the pump, and taking back the house usually means trapping a field mouse or two and releasing them back to a field.  This year, we didn’t find a one, thanks to some renovations made last summer that apparently closed off some of their avenues of ingress. There were a few harmless-looking spiders to evict, but they went without protest.

            The job I like least each spring is cleaning the broken limbs from the yard. I don’t mind the bending and lifting so much, but the loss of big limbs reminds me of how old all the trees around the house actually are, and how they can’t have many years left. Already there are a couple of huge stumps in evidence, one bringing memories of the majestic oak where hung Barb’s childhood swing-now reduced to being a pedestal for a potted plant or two.

 I noticed that the limb where we always hang our woven chair is dead this year, no longer able to support our weight.  It will have to come down and the chair hook removed, though there is no other limb, no other tree situated so advantageously for a session of late afternoon swinging while soaking in the view of the blue mountains.

            I hope our guests liked this place-some people do “rustic” better than others. For Barb and me, “rustic R us.”  We find ourselves soothed each time we visit the farm. We may arrive deep in conversation, car radio blaring rock and roll, with a to-do list before us that would scare Ty Pennington and his crew. But as our first day there wears on, we find ourselves getting quieter and quieter, and when we do speak, the words come out sometimes almost in whispers.  At some point one of us turns off the music, and the afternoon is given over to the sounds of geese flying past, a lone cow mooing far away and- blessedly-utter peace and quiet.

            And while a graduation is a time for great celebration, it is also a time of taking stock, shedding tears, solemn moments and sheer contentment and peace.  From that perspective, I think our farmhouse probably served its weekend purpose well.