Guardians of the Meadow

Stone walls are everywhere in the Northeast. They conjure up bucolic images of a time when small farms were a way of life. A herd of twenty to thirty milking cows could sustain a family, along with the vegetable garden, chickens, fruit trees and berry bushes.  Originally constructed as property markers and means of keeping farm animals within confined areas, these stones walls, many still standing, are defined by their natural beauty. Gates, called bar ways, were just a tree cut in half, the bottom whittled to a point and driven into the ground, one on either side, the width of the desired opening. Before being driven into the ground, these end poles had three holes bored into each them. Three much smaller trees were cut and used as the rails across the opening. Just lift the rails out of the holes and the animals could move freely through the bar way to the next field.

Memories of walking through the open fields and woods of New England, we recall jumping the stone walls or squeezing through the rails of the bar ways. We never thought to take down the rails, jumping over or squeezing through seemed so much more sinister! We knew the dangers of trespassing, a field of cows munching the emerald green grasses, never a challenge for a walk through.  On the other hand a lone bull, with a nose ring and muscles protruding from his large majestic body, a warning of danger, yet a challenge to the wing-footed bodies of youth. Only the agile dare enter such a foreboding place, a field strewn with "cow plops", only added to the dangers of a quick flight. Depending on the depth, circumference and age of these odoriferous mounds dotting the picturesque fields of the hilly New England landscape, your run need be strategically planned, insuring safe passage and exit into the quiet, unsoiled, virgin green meadow on the far side.  Once reached, these areas, a bountiful playground of wild raspberries, blueberries and in early fall, the overhanging maple trees intertwined with wild grapes, serving as arbors from the afternoon sun. Stonewalls, with their nooks and crannies, often a secret hide-a-way, a place far from the obtrusive world of adult glare, a place where minds wondered, playing out the world of imagination: Cowboys and Indians, colonial militia or British red-coats, only now, admitting the boredom of the classroom, although a  vital and necessary learning tool, was so much more interesting, when pretending you were there.

My husband recalls wanting one of his homemade arrows to be more effective.  Not quite understanding the danger of his choice, he launches his "fire" arrow towards they heavens. Everyone in awe of its beauty, it actually worked, just as it did on TV.  Once skyward and out of sight, having been picked up by the cool afternoon breezes of the autumn season, everyone heads back to the barnyard, eager to help with the cows making their way to the milking parlor.  It was then in a moment of sheer terror, a flashback in the mind says,"run, run as fast as you can, back to the woods, the safe haven and majestic solitude of the forest will protect me," he realized just where his fire breathing arrow had landed.  Implanted in the roof of the bar, a fire quickly broke out. Thankfully, the farmer and friends that often took up residence in the sun bathed barnyard, while awaiting afternoon chores, had seen the incoming arrow and its trajectory, allowing for a quick response and dousing of the fire.  Punishment not as bad as first imagined, a stern warning, NEVER play with fire and best aim your arrow out of harm's way!

But it wasn't just historic facts that were played out.  The barns and surrounding yards held equal fascination: Riding small calves, perfectly roping techniques and jumping into the sweet smelling hay, neatly packed to the rafters, these old barns were a place to play and explore.  Many a neighboring farmer visiting his friend would talk for hours in the barnyard, exchanging news of the agricultural world and gossip that travelled at lightening speed throughout the community.

Today, only a handful of small family owned farms remain in the northeast, the former farm lands now dotted with homes and the once majestic stonewalls crumbling if not completely gone. Many of these stones, gathered by a handful of artisans now hoping to rebuild these magnificient and stately monuments of the past, to their former glory.