We purchased this farm back in 2018, but rented the place to the previous owners until July of 2019. Which means we are now one year in, on our own, and little Laurentide is home. I’ve shared some pics of the new kitchen, but you will see from this post that I’ve feathered the outside of the nest as well. After all, what is a bit of grass other than a carpet? A flower a painting? And the sun a giant chandelier? I have enjoyed searching every antique shop and rummage sale in the tri-state area for perfectly weathered perches to furnish these outside rooms.
The bench above was a retirement gift to my father almost twenty years ago, a thank you from his grandchildren for the excellent medical care he gave them. It is situated outside the fence of the new vegetable garden, which I will be posting about soon. But for now I will crow that my son has earned my deepest admiration for what he has accomplished inside this fence in the course of a few short months.
Back to the myriad of seating options. I hope you’ll join me on a virtual walk of our place, and then in the comments, let me know where you would like to park your tush here at Laurentide. Shall I be bringing you a lemonade or a gin and tonic?
This beautiful concrete bench is surrounded by perennials. If you look closely you can see baby shoots of bind weed, hundreds of them, reaching for the sun. They are the most evil of weeds, pernicious, beautiful, and with a Trumpian ambition that haunts my dreams. They must die. They will die.
The grapevine-covered pergola feels like the center spoke of the farm. You can sit here and get a feel for the activity happening in every direction. Japanese beetles are munching on the roof, and I’ve taken to stepping on these bouncy seats, balancing a container of sudsy water to flick them into, and yes, I’ve been soaked more than once.
Left: The back of the glass house, which is no longer empty. Earlier this spring, a neighbor donated a praying mantis ootheca, which we stuck on the sill over the door. Some bird made off with it about a week before it was due to hatch. Right: an antique iron and rush chair on the Stovepipe Porch.
The Moonshine Porch faces east and overlooks the sheep shed. We don’t have sheep (yet!) but three sandhill cranes live in the pasture and every morning, their weird pterodactyl squawking startles me and I spill hot tea on myself. Every single morning. I’ve finally got myself a covered tea mug.
The Stovepipe Porch is perfect for two, fine for three, cozy for four, a squeeze for five, and sardine-like for six or more. When one of us wishes to smoke a cigar, or has just sprayed comfrey insecticide in the hoop houses, or has failed to properly bathe, no amount of breeze can refresh the space. That’s when I and my sensitive nose beat a retreat to my bedroom window seat built for one. It’s right over the porch and with the window open, I can still holler down my opinions.
“Hail Guest! We ask not what thou art. If Friend, we greet thee, hand and heart. If Stranger, such no longer be. If Foe, our love shall conquer thee.” That’s an old Welch verse which I’d like to try and memorize this winter while waiting for COVID to be vanquished.
This used to be a pair of chairs but one broke (with me in it.) So we moved the solo chair and matching table out to a clearing in the prairie that is indeed as desolate as it appears above. No one made use of this lonely spot until this summer when my nephew Eli would saunter out at sunset and play his trombone to an audience of insects. We now refer to this cove as Eli’s Alibi.
“Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me.” Our apple trees are ancient. They’re a little sickly with rust fungus which spreads via cedar trees, but the previous owner, Scott, has taken grafts so we can plant their offspring.
These spring-mechanism sunburst chairs, which are both bouncy and surprisingly comfy on your tush, surround a teak table on the breezeway between the glass house and the barn. I’ve written about the chairs before, if you’re interested. Embedded in the stone face of the foundation is a number of fossils, given to Scott by his science teacher mother.
Our favorite spot to watch the sunset, we jokingly named this Viagra Point because of its picturesque pair of chairs. The name stuck, and rolls off the tongue so naturally, which sometimes shocks newcomers, until they realize this place definitely gives you an erection lasting more than six hours.
If you had told me ten years ago that my son and I would be happily co-habitating on a flipping farm, I would have asked if you were smoking the same thing he was. This kid gave me every kind of gray hair, and consequently, I was pretty hard on him. But somehow, as we’ve toiled the soil together, we’ve also worked out a lot of our old conflicts. We still have our differences, including about where to sit. He teases me about bamboo chairs and woven rush seats and custom cushions and I roll my eyes about piles of rope (above) but we have discovered that — big surprise! — we are a lot alike. It’s been deeply gratifying to get to know him in this way.
You wouldn’t know it from the pic, but there is a perfectly functional chair just over the left shoulder of my son. He prefers the wheelbarrow. His friend Dom can attest to the fireworks that frequently occurred between my son and me. Dom too has experienced my “mother bear” style of parenting.
By now, maybe you’re noticing a trend of people sitting in spots not designed for buttocks comfort.
My son’s partner is easy-going, easily pleased by any old perch for a rest, and thus, very easy to love.
In June, this poor guy was bitten by a Lyme-carrying tick and sometimes experiences a little fatigue. On this day, I came across him reclining five feet from an actual chair.
My friend Chris was probably a Rhode Island Red in a previous life. She has a deep affinity for chickens. She comes to visit them and school me in their breeding and laying habits.
Short shorts and splintery planks of wood don’t always mix but in this case, the conversation was so riveting, I didn’t notice a problem until later.
Rosebud (left) is paying a morning call to Lisa (right) and according to the rules of etiquette is awaiting Lisa’s invitation to take a seat at the table. The hens of Laurentide are well-bred and comport themselves with elegance and dignity.