Just thought I'd share this. Maybe you'll get a few laughs, and perhaps understand a bit more where I am coming from. This was written a long time ago......
Written November 1978(This was written while in Shelburne. It began as a letter to friends back in the valley. I don’t recall if it was sent in full or not. I don’t know whether to keep it or not, but will omit the first part. I think it was supposed to funny, but rereading it, I don’t find it so. I put myself down quite a bit. I will just continue with the part where we begin farming.)
Our married life has had its share of ups and downs, oohs and ahs, darns and I’m sorrys. For the first eight or so years there were many changes. (We produced two off-spring and they always needed changing.) We were like nomads, moving constantly it seemed, living in a different house every year, and sometimes moving twice in the same year. But, in the spring of 1974 we finally settled in a place called Nicholsville, and here, dear reader is where the madness begins to make its mark. It is here that I will begin a detailed description of the “Mad Housewife.”
Our own home, our first home, this little house was really home, finally! It meant comfort, warmth, relaxation……Ha! Fat chance! In the first few days, even before we actually had moved in, I had an inclination of just what was in store, and yet I ignored the treacherous thoughts that kept nagging at me. This place is going to put calluses on your hands, bruises on your legs, paint on your pants, and hurt in your heart. “I laughed it off. No way, I said to myself. This is heaven.
As we moved in, a whole new way of life unfolded before me. In fact a whole new Boss sprang out of the old one. It was as if the mountain air produced a potion that transformed him into something alien. He began to spend every waking hour working on the house, or outside. His job flying became secondary, a means to an end, and in the changing process I began to realize that I too was slipping gradually, and not without a fight, slipping into the chasm with my husband. It was then I knew that I had to be going completely mad! I feared I would never be normal again. To prove this thesis I will endeavor to report certain activities that will support this mad theory.
We must go back a few years, to the beginning, before we moved in. Back to the time when I found myself sitting under a great maple tree, at the edge of what my husband called a garden, but what appeared to me to be a farmers field. Why, you might ask were we sitting under the tree? For one thing, we were cutting potatoes to plant in “our garden”.
We cut, we planted, and in so doing we sowed the seeds of country living into our hearts. I became blood brother (or sister) to a potato, by slicing my finger and allowing the juice from the potato to mix with the blood from my finger, and I became mysteriously a part of the land.
The day came when we moved in. This followed days of lugging our belongings up the mountain, and across a gravel road to our new house. The moving was a miracle in action, a truly weird sight to any onlookers, and I am sure to this day, that it implanted serious doubts about our rationality, in the minds of our new neighbours. Picture, if you can, a beat-up, rusted old car, hauling a skidoo trailer loaded to the gills with cartons, mattresses, furniture, and then add to that a following truck, an ancient four wheel drive, ex paddy wagon, and also packed full of our belongings.
Slowly, we crawled from the married quarters at the base, where we had existed for a month or two, along the middle mountain road, unpaved of course, then up the mountain to the top road, which was about to be paved, and was therefore blanketed with rocks the size of beach balls. I was indeed a battle, weaving to avoid the larger rocks, and at the same time, not swerving hard enough to upset all the cartons on the trailer. Finally, with beaded brow and racing pulse, and overflowing kidneys, we arrived with the last load, and became residents in our home.
We decided that top priority was the garden, and I became a fast learner in the weed course. I can remember closing my eyes at night and seeing weeds, weeds of every kind. I’d shake my head in a futile attempt to dispel the vision, and it would be replaced with millions of carrot tops, popping through the ground. Oh how I ached for peaceful sleep, without having to take the garden to bed with me. Strange bedmates, strange indeed.