When I heard about the lecture, “Big House, Little House, Back House, Barn,” I was reminded of the farm where I lived as a teen. Thomas Hubka, a University of Wisconsin professor, presented a talk in Boscawen, NH last week, and will again deliver his slide lecture at two separate NH locations this week, Temple and Chatham (pronounced “Chat-ham”). This is yet another event sponsored by the New Hampshire Humanities Council. Click on this link, for a list of places and times of meetings.
Aerial view of the Grace family farm in Deerfield, NH in 1964. There are about 40 acres of cleared land to the left of the house, divided partially by a line of trees. The property extends backwards, through woods, and a wetland swamp, all the way to the Candia, NH line: 89 acres, in all. I used to ride my horse on some of the trails through the woods, although the deer flies were brutally vicious, taking chunks out of the skin of the unwary.
Don’t you just love the coon skins hanging on the barn?
My parents did not necessarily buy this place for the quality of home that sat on the acreage. For $12,000.00, it was an investment. My father, John E. Grace, had hoped to work a lot more on improving the house, but got the news that he had kidney cancer, shortly after purchasing the property. Pronounced “cured,” he started a tree nursery, in addition to working at his “day job” in Manchester.
The layout of the Deerfield farm when my parents purchased it in 1963.
It would have been difficult to make a silk purse out of this sow’s ear, but before he could accomplish his dream of making this property a “show place,” my father died of a spinal tumor in 1974. My mother continued to live in the home until she was hauled off to a hospital with a heart attack, and never returned. The farm sold in 1999, if I remember correctly.
Previously a dairy farm, the property my parents purchased was a sprawling affair of outbuildings. The old farmhouse was attached to an unfinished “shed” under the same roof, featuring visible, hand-hewn beams.
What one’s eye could not miss was a huge meat freezer that no one dared to move, lest it disturb the upright supports in the cellar underneath it, thus causing the floor to collapse.
At the end of the “shed,” as we called it, there was a chicken coop with laying boxes for the hens, enclosed with chicken wire. This was a good way to be able to collect eggs in the dead of winter, without going outside.
There was a loft above the chicken coop where old items were stored, such as a broken rocking chair. To the right of the loft was a room with a roughly cut out entrance. This was situated above the kitchen and had been used as a room by hired help, at some point, before the mice romped freely, leaving their trail.
Downstairs again, to the left of the chicken coop was an area that went right into the barn, again, sheltering barn entrants from exposure to the weather. My father disassembled that connector, so that the cost of fire insurance would decrease.
Previously, when one passed through that corridor, overhead was a straw-covered wooden platform where “the old drunk who worked there” slept.
The barn seemed to have been built in sections, with the main part being built first, and then a long extension that featured stanchions for milking dairy cows, and closed in pens for heifers. At the back, my Dad assembled two pens for my horses.
“Lucky,” a half-Arabian gelding, and “Montana Red,” a retired Standardbred racehorse graze in three acre pasture to the left of the house in this May 1964 photo.
At the back and to the right side of the back barn was a milk-processing room. I remember its soapstone sink. Perhaps, the soapstone came from Francestown, NH, well-known for its soapstone manufacturing. Another free-standing room abutted the milk-processing room, but there was no point of entry between the two. The door opening was on the other side of the building. Someone had stored old paintings in there.
A separate barn with a cement floor was on site. Without enough upright beams, it collapsed during the weight of one winter’s snow. Next to that was a carriage shed, with yet another chicken coop at the end. So, as you can see, the place was a conglomeration of these many buildings. Today, only the house with the one connected shed remains. The new owner has torn down everything else.
This view of the farmhouse shows a roof dormer, which was removed, as well as the window awnings. The white door seen on the side of the front of the house actually led into a long mud closet for hanging coats, and then into a living room with two mismatched tin ceilings, making it appear as if the room had been two rooms at one time.
My father had a fireplace installed, as well as hardwood floors, a sheet rock ceiling and faux wooden beams. He added wood paneling, and a French glass door between the living room and large country kitchen. With a huge braided rug, the room was a cozy place where my Dad and I played music, quite frequently. He also fixed up the front porch and added screens and a door.
Me, Patricia Grace, with trophy for being named Princess of the Deerfield Bicentennial Celebration in 1966. Here, I am standing in the living room of the family home.
I have fond memories of the farm and growing up in a small town, especially being a member of 4-H. It was nice not to be able to “see” any neighbors, with open land on either side and across the street. The property consisted of 89 acres. The new owner has built a luxury home in the back field where I used to pick wild blueberries along the side of the field, and also, ride my horse. Of all the former buildings, only the main home with the attached shed remains and is rented out, as far as I know.
Times change and one can see how people tried to make do, in the past. The New Hampshire countryside is looking more prosperous these days, except for the remaining falling-down barns, previously used by dairy farmers. They simply did not have the time or money to do upkeep to the buildings.
I am posting this because I can certainly relate to the topic currently being presented by a NH Humanities Council speaker. We tried to attend the lecture last week, but alas, by the time we arrived, the crowd had already spilled into the hallway, and we couldn’t see or hear a thing, so will wait for a more propitious time.
Patricia L. (Grace) Cummings
Quilter’s Muse Publications
