(My morning soundtrack – just 30 seconds)
I tucked my curls into my wool beret, pulled on my Wellies, and headed out, the hounds scrabbling around my knees. The mist felt good against my face.
“Oh dear,” I said as I turned a blistered grape leaf over in my hand. I held it up for Dave to examine: it was twisted, covered with galls and browning to brittleness.
Quick examination revealed all the vines were similarly affected.
“I’m afraid the grapes haven’t performed as we’d hoped,” I said to my husband, who frowned as he reviewed the long rows. “It’s so disappointing,” he huffed. “I’ll ask Tom to get the gardener out to take a look. Maybe he can tell us what’s going on and if there’s a remedy.” He gave me a rueful grin. “We just never know what a season will bring, do we, my dear?” With that, he shook his head, whistled for the dogs and headed off to the southern-most acres.
“I won’t be long,” he called back. “I’m just going to check on that covey.” As he strode off, I couldn’t help but smile: he cut a fine figure in his casual hunting jacket.
The wind was out of the East and laying the grass flat. The air was wet, and the change of season evident in the fading roses and orange hawthorn berries. I pulled the collar of my barn coat up to my chin and began a brisk walk back to the house. I waved a hello to Mr. Grange as I passed the orchard. The apples were heavy and quickly ripening. Good.
I’ll ask Mrs. Hanes to set a tray of hot tea and scones, I thought to myself as I pushed through the tall grass. Then I’ve got to get to the letters. Recently married, cousin Lisle was motoring across Wales with her new husband Archie and stopping at every hint of a top-notch brood mare for their stables. She had posted a short note after a particularly disappointing inspection. She’s fanatical about her horses, but a sweet girl all the same. I needed to let her know she could stop here before heading back home.
I wonder if she can join us for a nice long stay over Christmas? I asked myself, as I crossed the threshold into the front hall. I could get my dear husband to entice Archie with a late-season hunt: a plan.
“Thank you,” I said to the the young footman as he closed the door behind me and took my coat. I headed to the back of the house, rubbing the chill from my hands and anticipating the warmth of the sitting room fire.
—–
Believe it or not, that scene played in my head while walking my rural Wisconsin cattle farm, Bull Brook Keep, this morning. Although I grew up in the tenements of the South Bronx, and now farm in rough jeans and thick Muck boots, lift 50-lb. packages of alfalfa, and manage a small herd of beef cattle, my mind superimposes other worlds. I see patrician wardrobes, hear British accents, and enjoy the company of not-really-there friends, family, and servants.
And yes, I did come in out of the drizzle for a cup of milky sweet tea and small apple hand-pie (home-grown, no less).
Sometimes it’s the weather that triggers it. When it’s cool and the clouds are skidding low, I’m on a Scottish coast with the cast of Outlander. I drive carts with The Poldarks. Why? Too much PBS? Should I blame my mother? She put a book of Shakespeare into my 12-year old hands and that was the end of that. Then again, Leon Uris’s Trinity hit me like a ton of bricks.
Or maybe all this was brought on by my cousin’s husband. I was just 10-years old when Kevin boisterously joined the family, fresh out of the military and newly engaged to cousin Betty. He was tall and ruddy, as strong and broad as the college football player he’d once been, and one of the warmest, most gregarious adults I’d ever met. We called him Red, and I’ve been in love with red hair, and Ireland, ever since.
Hmmm. Not sure, because I’m attracted to the Scots and Welsh as well.
The imaginary scenes have refused to remain cerebral musings. Two years ago, I began offering Cowgirl High Teas in our modern farmhouse. From the comfort of a table decked in linens, china and crystal, guests sip oolong, green and black teas with a clear view of the cows. I make and serve everything – cook and buttler, a meld of Downton’s Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Carson every time. I shape-shift from “upstairs” to “downstairs” and back again.
Why? Is this the cumulative impact of annual re-reads of Pride and Prejudice? Maybe. Maybe it’s a yearning for the civility of another time, and to be part of a smaller, more easily comprehensible villege.
No, this is not about reaching back to the “good old days.” I fully understand that I would have been a scullery maid or slave 200 years ago. I also realize that the “upper crust” was usually blind to anything outside its close circle and immediate needs. They were motivated by greed and self-interest. So what else is new?
Still, I don’t want to live in just one place, in only one time, or bound to one social class. I like borrowing from the best around us now and the past, making it familiar and my own. I think we can permit ourselves the time to enjoy the company of new acquaintances around a table. We can give and accept service gladly provided.
It’s raining steadily now, and the forecast is for more of the same throughout the day. My smartphone app predicts sun tomorrow, which is a good thing because we have bales of hay to move to the farm. Yes, we will haul them. Dave and I won’t call on an imaginary groundskeeper, or wait for ghostly footmen to deliver us into our carriage. It’s our work to do.
All the same, I can’t guarantee there won’t be a Scots dialogue running through my head.
Miniature Boston Cream Pie
And yes, you’re invited to tea.
