It is illegal in New Hampshire to tear down a stone wall. Of course, that alone has never stopped anyone.
That's why I'm here, to a certain extent. Protection.
Maple Grove Farm sits off Rte. 28, a gravel road, near Lake Winnapasauki. It has done so for a long time, as long as you and I need concern ourselves. It will do so as long as I remain.
The Farm sits back about 50 yards from the old road, surrounded by one of those beautiful, protected New Hampshire stone walls. The 200 year old barn leans and sinks slowly into the earth, filled with ancient farm tools and the smell of cows, although there have been no animals there for many decades. Inside the house, the old wooden floors are uneven and slope downward. Doorways and windows meet the nonparallel floor and ceiling at odd angles from years of settling, so as to give one the feeling of always being a little off balance.
You were a girl here. Rummaging through the attic on summer vacations, freezing Christmases. The attic holds a limitless bounty of riches that stirs my imagination, as it stirred yours, before you disappeared -a row of old foot treadle sewing machines, a 70 year old baby carriage, Sears catalogs from the '20s, various WWII souvenirs, old hats and boots, a wind-up gramophone, and two trunks of one-sided 78 rpm albums. The best are the items I can't identify, the things I have no name for. My days are spent trying to imagine the lives of the people who owned these and what each item could have been used for . I wonder the stories you and your cousins came up with, the games you invented, what names and uses you devised for these all-but-ancient relics.
Night brings a deep and spectacular darkness. The only light for miles around are the moon, the milky way, and the stars. Coyotes and owls howl and hoot in the distance. Sitting on the porch as quietly as possible in this darkness I have often been rewarded with the shadowy vision of the silent, sloping form of a lone coyote, fisher cat, or a fox making their nightly rounds.
The peace and pale light of morning usually catches deer and sometimes moose grazing in the tall unmowed grass in the back fields. Insects buzz and collect the dew that has pooled during the night. I sit on the porch in the cool mornings with some tea and listen to classical guitar playing softly from the stereo inside, one of the few modern conveniences allowed in the farmhouse. In the afternoon, there are berries to pick or hiking in the wooded hills, a walk to the lake to cool off and bathe, or walls lined with old books to read.
You left fifteen years ago and a lot has changed. Time and encroaching civilization have taken a toll on your little Eden. The porch, having been eaten away by years of rain and termites, is going to be removed; the old oak tree in front cut down due to disease. Most disturbing however is the ever-creeping pavement and traffic. The old dirt road which used to get a car or two a day now sees 3 or 4 each hour, vacationers from Boston up to visit their new summer homes. And directly across the street, two houses, ranch-style with large garages now scar the once pristine woodland, spotlights at night obscure the precious dark and scare off all but the boldest of wildlife.
This place belongs to you. When I saw that your grandfather had passed, I knew it was a matter of time before your parents and aunts and uncles would be looking to sell. Progress comes hard and fast. Property taxes are extraordinary and upkeep, on a place like this, is nothing to shrug off. That's why I offered to rent for so much money. My entire book advance. I'm living on nothing, waiting for you. I'm saving this for you. They say you ran off to Mexico with some curly-haired boy from Texas. They say you're living with the ambassador to Lithuania. They say a lot.
Me, I've stopped talking, here at Maple Grove Farm. I have faith that you're out there, like the cougars and wolves, supposedly all killed off years ago by overzealous farmers, protective of their cattle. Every now and again, however, you hear tell of a myserious shadow on the darkened road, an eerie sound over the lake. They're still out there, watching us and waiting for their time to come again, their numbers lessened but their hopes undiminished. This was their land, as much as it is yours. You're still out there too, still watching, waiting for your time.
This place belongs to you, as much as you belong to me. It would be crime to tear this place from its rightful owner, as much as it is a crime to destroy this old stone wall I look out on right now. And I plan to make sure that never happens.
