on eighteenth century living
and the skeleton keys to greatness
Another Sunday, another day at the barn, dear reader.
My daughter had two lessons to teach, then she was going to ride.
Knowing this, I had come prepared.
My backpack contained snacks, water, a Bud Zero, extra socks, gloves, two coats, a second pair of boots and most importantly, my snowshoes.
For over an hour I marched up and down and all around the property.
Imagine the look of confusion, dear reader, as I crested the hill and descended upon the horses.
Their heads cocked and ears stood at attention as if to say Who? How? Two leggers never come from there unless we see them go up first? What the hell is goin’ on? This place is crazy town.
It doesn’t take much to impress a horse it seems.
The sun was warm and I found some shelter in the trees. There, I ate some granola and drank a fake beer. Life was good.
Back at the barn, my daughter finished teaching and I watched her ride. Every bit of warmth left my body, dear reader, while I sat and watched. As she groomed and put the tack away, I got into the truck to escape the cold.
Wanna come into the parlour?
It was Travis. The old farm house has a separate room for riders to come in, warm up by the wood stove and have themselves a cup of coffee or tea.
Never one to say no to a coffee, I followed Travis inside.
The house was cozy. A wood fired cookstove stood prominently in the middle of the room. The floor boards were wide, old planks. Between the two windows there was a sign blocking the front door. It read: Welcome to our farm.
It would have been difficult for me to have felt more welcome than I did.
I sat down in a big old leather armchair for a coffee and a chin wag.
That’s when I noticed the door knob.
It was at least a foot lower than where it ‘should have been’.
That door knob is awful low. What’s that all about?
Travis beamed.
You noticed that right away eh? This house is old. It’a the oldest surviving in the valley here. Well this room - and above. They were built in the 1700’s. Loyalists.
I gaped with the realization that the floor was built at around the same time some of my ancestors arrived in Nova Scotia. Referring to the doorknob, I turned back to Travis.
I guess people were a lot shorter back then. It’s neat that the handle hasn’t changed. Feels funny though reaching down to open a door.
Travis smirked.
There’s a lot that’s funny about this house. Every other day it seems like we discover something new - like the front door here. It has one of those old forged key locks - those skeleton keys.
We both sat in awe that the house was still standing.
This is one of the best houses I‘ve ever been in Travis.
He was puzzled.
Why would you say that?
Well, I began, the best things aren’t always the most luxurious. The best things are built well, maintained and cared for with love. Whether it’s my truck, your tractor or this house, if you maintain them, they last forever.
And ya know what, dear reader?
The same can be said for pretty much anything: Airplanes, relationships and creative practices - approach them daily like those who cared for that humble farmhouse over the centuries and they will emerge as the greatest in the only world that matters.
Yours, dear reader.
May your boards creak and your hearth stay dusty, you musty old fools!
