Home.

Home Sweet Home.
I grew up on my grandparent's farm, and every time I go home, it somehow surprises me how backwoods it is in Cape Cod. And I always wish I had friends along with me to show them how great it can be growing up in the country.

This is me on the flight. The eyemask was, I'm sure, appreciated by all my seatmates I passed out on while in transit. This, combined with the medication I was on for my vertigo, probably made me extremely charming.

There are certain things you'll see on your way to Weir Road. And it always gets me a little more excited to round a corner and see: The pond across the street from our house where we used to catch shiners and follow eagles into the woods; the small river that creeps to the horsefarm below our land, Crab Creek- you can walk around the corner with some chicken skins in an onionbag tied up with a line of twine, drop it into the creek, and bring home something for lunch. The dirt road we live on has since been paved, but you can still see the one-car trails we were familar with while growing up.

When we get to the Grew's cranberry bog, I always give a little sigh of rememberance. Jumping off the sand-dunes, running after stray chickens and goats, building forts in the woods with our 4-wheelers, making chicken-coops for the bunnies we'd catch...and of course, the joy of cranberry farming.

As you can see, we still have road-side stands where you can get your vegatables, berrybaskets, wildflowers, and farm fresh eggs. (Some of them are even blue and green!) Next is the Heather Hale House you'll see on the way to my grandparent's. It was purchased and remodeled and really nicely fixed up a couple of years ago, but my entire youth was spent fearing the Heather Hale House and it's ghostly inhabitants. We used to catch rabbits out beside the house in the grapevines, but that's the closest I would ever dare to go. I still think someone should write a spooky story about The Heather Hale House, because...well- next to Boo Radley, don't you think it just SOUNDS creepy?

Above is the small property my grampa would tend during the year. The family that owns it is a long line of aristocratic sorts who can afford to be artists. They are very nice. And their house breeds mice. I am utterly fascinated by these stone walls- in Cape Cod, we don't use morter or cement. It's traditionally a family trade to fit stones together to create rockwalls. I love them.

And below we have the front door to our house- it has not been used since the early 80's, but my grandmoterh would always hang a pretty wreath on it anyway, so that the house would look nice for people on the street.

The windows looking out from our kitchen into the garden. I always thought this was such a magical view. Gramma and I like to watch the birds from here as we do dishes.

Some of those farm-fresh eggs from across the street. The neighbour brought them over when she'd heard grampa had passed. There were a dozen assorted eggs- some tan and freckled, mostly brown, some large and some small. I was delighted with the pale turquise ones with freckles. They were delicious.

We don't have central heat or a conventional stove or running water or electricity most times, so our days and nights are spent circled around our wood-burning stove. Everything gets cooked on this bad-boy, and most of the day revolves around stoking the fire and bringing in more wood from grampa's woodpile.
Mom and I spent a day wandering around the local beaches and walking out on the stone jetty by our old house on South Sea Avenue (where she grew up).

And finally, I bring home my loved one to meet the family.

Gramma said she didn't approve, but isn't that just to be expected?