The Farm

I’m not from around here. Vermont has been my home for over 12 years, but I’m a flatlander and a foreigner. I make the journey home to my family gladly many times every year. However, sometimes I don’t make it. Over the years I have been taken in by many families to join in their rituals and celebrations. This Easter, I was another such occasion. A friend took me to a Sunday Easter brunch at a commune she lived at as a child. Her mother had found refuge in the seventies at this farm community. Two newborn twins in hand and no support. The community at the Farm took her in and helped her raise her children and get back on her feet.

Thirty plus years later this farm is still a community, sharing land and buildings, helping each other out. I was welcomed with open arms on a sunny Sunday afternoon. The light was perfect for photos. We toured the now tilting barn that housed many an artist, and community member, in it’s little rooms tucked in nooks and crannies.

An off-the-grid house, where a friend’s father lived, glowed in the afternoon light. He made every cedar shake by hand and made craft furniture without nails. The wood told him how to carve the shapes that revealed themselves under his tools. He has passed from this world, his cabin a living museum of his life. His son, visits every day and has taken over the trade. The next generation honoring the tradition and art of woodworking by hand.

This community of unrelated folk, is now blooming it’s third generation. A new crop of little kids were starting to show up. The second generation is moving back to the farm and building their back to the land dream. It’s a different life now than in the seventies, but they still had room to open their doors to a stranger, take me in, to make me feel welcome. That’s a true community.

- Janet