What a Dream

by Lee Freeman of Campton, NH

There are a lot of folks who spend many hours thinking about what they want out of their life but, in the past 40 years or so, I have been blessed to have my dream beat me over the head whenever I get off track. My trip, however, has not been a straight road in the fast lane.

Growing up, I was fortunate to have been dumped off at a typical old third or fourth generational New Hampshire farm for a summer while my parents were getting their divorce. Fortunate? Yes! Odd? Not really; what better place to be as a 10 year-old kid than on a few hundred acres of woods, fields and streams, with implements, chickens, cats and cows. I always loved the cows. My memory was of the 20 or 30 Holsteins; but a review of some pictures I took back then were of a few Belted bulls (or possibly steers). Although I had some homesick moments, it was a good summer.

The farm consisted of husband and wife, Clayton and Dollie Ham, and Clayton’s younger brother, Spencer. Spencer lived a mile or so away with his wife, Katherine, but he worked the farm every day. The buildings consisted of an enormous, spectacular barn, one of the most photographed in NH, and a beautiful old three story farm house which once doubled as an inn called the “Outlook.” There was also a woodshed and another miscellaneous building which contained a retired ice house. A sugar house was about a mile up into the woods.

I am certain that I was not a huge help around the farm. I was a “city kid” to my hosts; my first 10 years spent on the outskirts of the suburbs in Rhode Island. But I knew my way around the barnyard. My family’s vacation camp was on property which the farm surrounded. When we came north to the camp, my sister and I would often ramble down the hill to visit the barn. The smell of the hay, the barn and the animals was the best lure. Now I would be spending my whole summer there!

Summer went by quickly and, in retrospect, I learned a lot about the farm and life. I spent most of my time with the men. I am quite sure that they were up much earlier in the morning than me, but once Mrs. Ham would call from the bottom of the stairs of the old farmhouse, my day would begin. The men would come in for a breakfast of eggs and zucchini blossoms. Clayton would always have his raw honey, including the comb. This must have been his special expense as it was one of the only things I was never offered.

I learned that there seemed to be an order to things and I enjoyed the routine. I enjoyed the animals. Frankly, I even enjoyed learning the work. Watching Spencer milk the cows by hand, even though they had one of those “new fangled” vacuum systems, was a treat. The cats would line up for an occasional squirt in the face….the cows didn’t seem to mind. When it came time to hay, there was only one spot for a scrawny adolescent, the driver’s seat of the big green Chevy.

I’ll never forget the day Clayton and Spencer decided to teach me to drive. We were out in the small hay field. They first asked me to get in the back of the truck to stack the bales which were being tossed up. The problem was that the bales weighed the same as me. So that wasn’t going to work. Clayton told me to get into the driver’s seat. My feet barely touched the pedals. He made a few adjustments and within ten minutes I was piloting the truck! All was going well until I got a bit close to the edge of the field. I didn’t know that I was supposed to watch for tree branches up above. With a yell and thud, Spencer and two tiers of bales were cleaned right off the top of the truck. I thought that was the end and that I was going to get an ear full. Instead, Spencer walked around to the drivers side door and said, “I guess you need some more practice, try staying away from the trees,” and back to work he went. I was the designated driver for the rest of the haying.

Looking back, the Ham’s were terrific teachers. I remember one day I asked Clayton if he ever used the 1964 Scout that was parked out back. I had a special attraction to the vehicle as it had been previously owned by my father. He used the vehicle to get up the hill to our camp, and occasionally went miles up the logging roads with it. Clayton said he had not run it for a while, but told me to follow him. After about 10 minutes of fiddling with the carburetor, the Scout was running. Clayton walked away. There I was 10 years old with a car idling in front of me. I jumped in and ground the transmission into first gear and released the clutch. I lurched forward about 10 feet. I then proceeded to put the vehicle into reverse. Bang, back ten feet. That was enough…for now. One of the few times Clayton and Dollie were away from the farm together was the next day. Well, I got that Scout started and proceeded to drive all over the trails on the side of the hill. When I was done, I backed back into the spot where I had started. Today, I am guessing that Clayton always knew. Back then, I thought I got away with something. I think Clayton just wanted me to get more practice so I would do better in the hay truck.

At 10, in my heart, I knew that I wanted to be a farmer. That summer the house next to the Ham Farm went for sale; asking price of $5000. I wondered how could I buy that house so I could stay here forever. Well, it wasn’t to be. Summer ended and I left the Ham’s with my dream.

Time passed, and the dream was pushed aside. I was a less than enthusiastic student, but soon found myself enrolled in the college just 15 minutes from the Ham Farm. My girlfriend (now wife) Joel and I would frequently visit the family camp but seldom would we visit the farmers. They were much older now, the cows were gone and the buildings were beginning to show neglect. I should have visited.

One time I had to visit was when I made a poor choice driving the trail up to the cabin in Joel’s 1966 Mustang. It became mired down in the mud..or maybe the battery went dead. I don’t recall. Regardless, I had to make my way down the familiar trail and ask for help. It’s funny, I almost felt like I had to re-introduce myself. But, with a bit of a smile, Spencer said he’d be up in a few minutes to help. He got us on our way and gave me a wave when I said, “Thanks.” That was the last I would ever see any of the Ham’s. Clayton, Spencer and Dollie all died within a year or so of each other.

After college, Joel and I decided to move back to Rhode Island, I to manage my father’s business; Joel to work in a bank. We married soon after. A year later and just about the time we bought our first house, Joel announced that she was pregnant! And, just about the same time, my father and I had a falling out. I was unemployed. The long and the short of it was that three months later we moved out of the house we had just purchased and into the camp near the farm. The camp was a one room former barn a quarter mile into the woods with no central heat and three feet of snow in the trail leading to it. Oh, and my new job was 70 miles away. We made it work. We were in the area that was home, and we knew it.

A few years later our second child was born. It was then we decided it was time to move out of the cabin. We bought a small house two miles away. Jobs changed, our luck kept getting better. One day I came home from work (the company for which I worked was based in Charlotte, NC) and I announced that I had been promoted. The problem was that we needed to move to Charlotte. Joel and the kids were great; they were as supportive and excited as anyone could ask.

Christmas week the weather was rainy, raw and cold; everyone in the house was sick. It was miserable. But, I realized what I was about to do. At 32 years of age, I was so close to living my dream and I was about to leave it behind for corporate advancement. I told my family I didn’t want to move. They were as excited as Christmas morning.

From that point on many things changed in the lives of the Freeman’s, but one thing remained constant: I still longed to be a farmer. In 2000 we were lucky to find a 92 acre piece of land, a mile and a half from the Ham’s farm. This over-cut land is slowly becoming the Freeman’s Farm (we call it Bearfoot Farm). In 2004 and 2005 we disassembled and moved a circa 1750’s house and 1800’s barn to our farm. Those buildings are becoming our home. This year, we will be moving and rebuilding an 1830’s barn for our critters. The critters consist of a dozen or so chickens, 2 llamas, one horse, and my team of working steers….the steer’s names, by the way, Spencer and Clayton.

It’s funny, many folks around town consider us to be farmers. I’m not sure we ever will meet my definition of being farmers, but now, at 45 years of age, I think we are the luckiest folks on the planet. Imagine for 35 years I have longed to have a farm, I met Joel, who also loved that idea and here we are building the farm we want.

I still own an acre or so of land that was once part of my family’s camp land, behind the Ham farm. But I only visit it rarely. You see, it has now been two generations since anyone has lived in the old Outlook House. Both the house and the grand old barn have fallen in to such disrepair that they may be beyond repair. Junk cars are everywhere. There is no longer the aroma of fresh hay in the barn, just the acrid smell of transmission fluid.

The current generation, grandsons, are considering selling off some lots to help pay for taxes. I was helping one, Spencer’s grandson Jared, locate boundary markers on the farm one day when I asked him if he would take me into the house. As I walked around the kitchen with the enormous wood burning cook stove, I could picture Dollie cooking dinner as clear as day. And in the living room I could see Clayton, chewing on a toothpick watching the TV weatherman, Marty Engstrom, from the top of Mt. Washington. The debris of 30 years of neglect was all around, but I barely noticed.

So, here I am at the tail end of my mid-life crisis years and, thank goodness I am able to say that I have a solid view of what my life dreams were (or are). This year we will retire one sugar house and build a new one. Maybe the bees will make it through the winter. Heck, if we’re lucky, the hens will start laying again soon….someday, if I stay focused, I’ll be a farmer. What a dream!

Post script: After many years of neglect and poor maintenance, today, on March 9, 2008, the Ham’s farm house front porch collapsed under the weight of several feet of snow. Gone, too, in this storm is the farm’s 18th century woodshed. In a short 30 years entropy has taken hold of the once thriving farm.