The farmhouse; Lunch is ready; Lynn, Tom, Chief; North kitchen window
“Purity. Serenity. Simplicity. Seclusion. All one’s concentration and flamboyance and originality reserved for the grueling, exalted, transcendent calling. I looked around and thought, This is how I will live."
My grandparents' 1849 Greek Revival farmhouse sits on the hill in Guyanoga, NY, which is just a country crossroads with a few houses and the Valley Inn, home to the best Friday night fish fry around, with a squeeze bottle of tartar sauce right on the table. The farmhouse is full of well-loved antiques and is surrounded by fields and woods. It's the kind of place that sets me back a century, recalls big family meals, good smells, nature, and the autumn deer hunters coming in for lunch, full of stories, ready for hot soup and sandwiches, shucking their hunting clothes and guns on the porch and eating in their long johns. The house is peaceful, solid, beautiful, and cozy. It's the kind of place I could live in forever, with my boots on the porch and the seasons coming and going. My grandfather, Huck, passed in 2003 at 89 and my gran, Peg, passed in 2015 at 98, but the house is still in the family.