Monday, March 28, 2011


 Back when we moved to Pinehaven, nearly 25 years ago, I roamed the property to get a general feel for the land. To our north, on land we did not purchase, was this structure. I thought it was the original outhouse that went with the farm. I christened it "The Schmidt House" (for The S--T House), thinking it a pretty good tag.

 I realized, of course, that it was way too short for an outhouse but I figured part of it had either been cut off or was buried. Now I'm told it might have been a shelter for hogs. There's ample evidence that hogs were raised here at one time: a concrete feeder, nose rings and even a fence which is now buried where it stood.
 The metal roof on this structure is identical to the one that was on the house for most of our years here. We had it replaced a few years back [see blog entries in May 2008]. The house also has similar wooden siding beneath the brick veneer. So it made sense that it was a sort-of-coordinated outhouse.
 Regardless, the poor old structure is slowly decaying into the soil. This must have been the spot for the original farm's "junk pile". Scattered in the dirt are broken bottles, pieces of cracked porcelain, chips of dinner plates, even an entire lock assembly for a door. Most appear to be antiques. It'd be a nice place to conduct an archeological dig ... the history of Pinehaven slowly pulled from the soil ... unearthed.

 Nearby and even more ancient is a large rock, perhaps pink granite, that surely has stood in that same spot for centuries. Nowadays it is not even seen except when I walk by. And that has been a decade, I'll bet. It sports a family of lichens, slowly eating its surface, helping it turn to dust. Yesterday in the late afternoon sun the depth of the pink, speckled with clear quartz, was striking. The lichens provide a contrasting and yet complimentary gray.

 Did Samuel or William Fisher walk by this stone after they had purchased the property in 1841? Did they appreciate its rare beauty? Were the lichens already set down to lunch? In the intervening years, what farmer found the stone blocking his path? What young children played upon its surface? How many storms have battered its surface with pounding rain, covered it with ice and snow?

 Where will it be a hundred years hence when I too have turned to dust?