I've seen many summers come and go, some gale-blown and wet, others warm and dry with cloud-dotted skies. I am the last of my kind and soon I will be torn down; my lumber carted off, burnt, or maybe just thrown in the ditch. The orchard at the top of the hill will be cut down, the stumps pulled, and the brush burnt.
The old farm is dying. The old ways of the hill farm are almost forgotten. No one except for me remembers when the brook was teeming with trout. Nobody except for me remembers the old farmhouse on the corner of Durgin Hill and Center Road that is now an overgrown cellar hole.
The ways that used to be normal life in Vermont are almost lost in the void of the forgotten. There might be a couple of folks willing to take that path and keep the flame alive, but it will soon die. It makes me sad, but all things must come to an end and new things will come and go.
If you happen to pass a tree-covered hill in the middle of Corinth, please wave. That will be where I once stood, tall and proud, resolutely watching the farm below. If you look closely you might find an old foundation or a pitchfork forgotten by a hard-working farmer or maybe a rim to a wagon wheel.
Alas, metal rusts and rock crumbles, wood rots and turns to dirt. All that will live on are the stories of the people who toiled in the earth, made a home, and gave themselves back to the land.
The old farm is dying. The old ways of the hill farm are almost forgotten. No one except for me remembers when the brook was teeming with trout. Nobody except for me remembers the old farmhouse on the corner of Durgin Hill and Center Road that is now an overgrown cellar hole.
The ways that used to be normal life in Vermont are almost lost in the void of the forgotten. There might be a couple of folks willing to take that path and keep the flame alive, but it will soon die. It makes me sad, but all things must come to an end and new things will come and go.
If you happen to pass a tree-covered hill in the middle of Corinth, please wave. That will be where I once stood, tall and proud, resolutely watching the farm below. If you look closely you might find an old foundation or a pitchfork forgotten by a hard-working farmer or maybe a rim to a wagon wheel.
Alas, metal rusts and rock crumbles, wood rots and turns to dirt. All that will live on are the stories of the people who toiled in the earth, made a home, and gave themselves back to the land.
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