Welcome Home

We are about to get new neighbors. Our house sits at the end of a dead end road. The land and woods surrounding us is ours. In giving directions to customers coming to the shop in January, we are able to tell them if they run into the snowbank- they’ve gone too far. Here, the old New England saying, “You can’t git there from here” is reality. That is, unless you continue on the class four road, only accessible in the warmer months, an ancient two-tire dirt path that traverses several brooks and rivers. You can take a large truck up that road, an ATV (scary), walk, mountain bike or, in the cold months, snow shoe or cross country ski. At the very end of that road sits a little red farmhouse with a wrap-around porch. Built in the early 1800’s off the very turnpike that my fourth great grandfather built, some people believe it began life as a common place for travelers to collect their mail and, most likely, a drink in the tavern the two tables in the back room. It morphed into a fishing camp, used in the summer months and Then it simply sat, waiting for its next owners to find it.

Josh grew up here living a life quite different from many of his friends. Because he knew how to drive a stick on our tractor as a young child, he had no problem learning to drive a car. He traveled the same class four dirt path on our ATV driving past the old trailer sitting in the woods on the edge of the road, watching it deteriorate and trees sprout from its center year after year. Jobs included splitting, stacking and hauling wood for heating the house and he was part architect, part builder on all barns we raised. He knows every neighbor and has spent many afternoons laughing with them while taking our three dogs for a run. After getting his Masters degree in Wildlife Biology while living here during Covid, he met Alissa, more commonly known as Al. They moved into a beautiful apartment in downtown Montpelier with decorated high ceilings and huge windows overlooking the river. Together they built a life, walking to the hardware store, to get Vietnamese food, and their dog, Rufio. Living outside a rural setting was an adventure without trees.

About six months ago a neighbor from across the pond called Josh to tell him that the people owning the little red farmhouse were thinking of selling. Did he know the house? Of course he did. The house sits on an acre of rolling field with a small apple orchard in the middle. Across the road sits a farm on 800 acres of land, the owners of the little red house. Josh and Al stood on the crooked porch, listened to crickets in the tall grass of the hay field across the road and dreamed.

The owners of the house weren’t selling for money, though they would take it, of course. They wanted someone to love that red house. A young couple who had time, skill, energy, muscle and dreams; Al and Josh.

We walked up the class four road to see the house with them. We opened the door to the musty smell of many years sitting empty. We walked from room to room and while we could see the pieces of wood hanging down from the ceiling and a dusty old furnace, they saw their future. Arms outstretched, pointing at what they would do and what would go where. Did we think that doorway could be widened? They would put a table on the back porch right outside the kitchen for picnics as the sun set. The apple trees need a good pruning and then we will all gather their fruit in wood apple baskets and they, too, will become cider from our press.

Deals and promises made, Al’s dad, Dean, arrived to help put on a new roof. We sat around our dining room table one evening after a long day on the roof, eating pizza and drinking cold beer. The parents smiling as Josh and Al outline plans and scheme on how to overcome difficulties. Their joy is infectious and makes us all remember what it is to begin.

One Sunday afternoon we hear noise outside and look out to see Josh and Al cross country skiing down the long road to our house. “Howdy neighbors!” Al calls out, waving her ski pole. Josh, a novice to skiing, awkwardly maneuvers the hill, looking up from under his wool hat with a big grin on his face. They come inside to warm up with tea and Josh rummages, familiarly, in the cupboards.

We get calls about a mint colored bathtub they have found online and a buffet that they were able to buy for fifty bucks. They wear masks and goggles and pull down wood from the ceiling to reveal hand-hewn beams in their kitchen. They stop by to tell us about it on the way home and warm themselves by our wood stove. Cheeks smeared with grime, they look tired but turn to each other with laughter that is filled with the unknown, with the adventure of love.

Each weekend they disappear into their house: armed with tools from our shop and a plastic container of soup for lunch. After hearing stories about the amazing wood floors that they have brought back to life with soap and water and the discovery of more beams, on Sunday we stop for a surprise visit and impromptu tour. It is our turn to holler, “Hello neighbors!”

The house has no heat as of yet so all work is done dressed in layers. Fortunately, although one of the chimneys doesn’t heat, tearing it down creates plenty. After our tour through the chaos of construction and demolition as well as the tour of what is to come, we wave good bye and head home.

We walk into our house and feel the immediate warmth from the wood stove. We hear the grandfather clock chiming a welcome and there is quiet instead of chaos. I hang up my heavy coat and look around. This is our home, our life and it is complete rather than under construction. We breathe a sigh of relief for that. But Paul and I turn, look at each other and begin to smile. We wear the smile of remembering; what it is to “see” your future draped over empty windows. How wonderful picnics on wooden floors can be, what it is to build your life together with your own four hands. We know that one day they, too, will have rugs, refrigerators and a wood stove to warm their feet on, but like us, they will never forget this time in their lives, when nothing matters but each other, burgers and fries are a luxury, and fifty bucks buys you new furniture.

A little red house is, indeed, a perfect place to begin.