Fall in New England - Essay

     There's nothing like fall in New Hampshire.  The picturesque landscape, the cool crisp air, the peaceful feeling you get inside.  When I was young, my family would take its vacations in Lyme, New Hampshire.  We would visit a farm my Aunt Billie and Uncle Charlie owned.  It was a working farm at one time, however that was before I was born.  Now there are only a few cows and chickens left.  We would go up in the fall when the leaves start to change, and before the weather became bad.  The farm was all rolling fields that seemed to go on forever.  Just when you think that you couldn't go on any further you make it to the Connecticut River.  The River divides New Hampshire and Vermont.  It's a beautiful wide river gliding along strong and peacefully contradicted only by the erosion of its banks.  The banks are set about seven feet above the water, as it dug itself securely into the earth.  I never went swimming in it, but I always wanted to.  This was because we never went during the summer, after a full day running through the fields with my cousins and my brother, I always imagine that jumping in would be the perfect end to the day.

     The farm house was a big Victorian style house.  The outside house was in need of some paint, and  the wooden floors inside would creek and moan with age when you walked across them.  The house had about six bedrooms with only two bathrooms, one upstairs and one down.  I remember they had a TV in the living room which only received two channels.  But that's OK because I wasn't there to watch TV anyway.  The only time I really spent in the house was at meal times.  We would all sit around this big oak table.  Our meal was made with either fresh eggs, or pasteurized milk, or something else my aunt and uncle could either make or grow.  They had this dog named Willie, a black lab, who loved to go out and find skunks.  He would come in every evening smelling, from having been sprayed.

     I would spend my time on these weeks with my cousins, either at the river or running through the fields .  Wondering at the marvels of nature, investigating everything.  The freedom those fields gave was unmatched by anything I knew of then or have found since.  The only interruptions to that freedom came from my family, or the occasional bull who thought I wondered to close to his cows.  Occasionally, my brother and I would be allowed to help with the few remaining farm chores.  These would be wonderful mornings for me.  I remember throwing the feed out to the chickens, and the first time my uncle showed me how to milk a cow.  That was a great day.  My uncle sat me down on a little stool and showed me how to grab and pull on the cow's utter in order to get the milk.  I must have tried five or six times with no success, when my uncle took my hand and helped me do it.  After a while, I did get the hand of it.

     I remember it all very fondly, but times change and people grow up and move on with their lives.  My Uncle Charlie has since passed away, and my Aunt Billie was moved into a state run facility with Alzheimer.  My aunt and uncle have slipped out of my life.  I still keep in touch with one of my cousins but not very often.  All that's left is my memory.  That farm in Lyme, New Hampshire, has dug its way into my mind just as the river dug its way into the earth.  In my mind my aunt and uncle have merged with the land that they loved so much.  Thinking about it I can almost see my uncle's face in the water of that river, rolling along strong and peacefully.