The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
. . . The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
Bill and I had another Brown County experience. Several years ago, his English cousin’s son, his wife and their teenybopper children came to visit. We’d never met them and wasn’t sure how to entertain them. I’d recently heard a couple describe a meal at what I shall call “The Fairytale Inn” located in the rustic boonies of Brown County. Friend Phyllis also had eaten there and said the place was ever so picturesque. (Yes indeedy!)
I suggested that we get rooms for the night and then go to Nashville the next day. The drive along the back roads was the embodiment of Riley’s poem and the inn’s setting was tranquil and lovely.
Bill’s relatives were to stay in an old, white clapboard farmhouse across the road from the inn. The inn itself was, to put it mildly, battered looking. When we opened the door of the “cottage” there was an overpowering smell of mildew. Bill complained to the manager who said, “That’s all there is.” His attitude was take-it-or leave it. It was growing dusk and too late to find another place. Our gracious guests said, “Never mind. We’ve stayed in worse places back home.”
Our room was on the second floor of the inn. Bill swore that a cloud of dust rose when he walked across the carpet. A guest had written a witty poem in the guestbook about an infestation of ladybugs. Dinner was quite expensive. The cheapest thing on the menu that was suitable for kids was fried chicken for over $15.
I told Phyllis about our experience. “What? You actually spent the night at the Fairytale Inn? No one does that!” One of my friends regaled me with the story about the time she was there with a group of people, “The electricity went off. Some people got their food, others didn’t. The septic system broke down, and here we were — all pooping!” In all honesty, however, the place is charming and its location is beautiful.
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!
I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—
I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
When I was a girl I loved to hear old Granny and my mother tell about the olden, golden days that Riley depicted. Granny described how when she was a girl they preserved vegetables and fruit for the winter on the farm where she grew up. They dug a trench, lined it with straw, filled it with vegetables, put another layer of straw on them and then covered it with dirt. She said, “Those things tasted mighty good we dug them up during the winter!”
Mother’s Uncle Bert lived with her-grandmother Black on a little farm just outside of Michigantown. She told about how he permitted her and her cousins, Mary and Dorothy, to sip cider from his barrel by sticking long straws through the crust on top so long as they didn’t disturb the crust. Mother said, “One time we became real giggly and was having the bestest time. Grandma said, ‘Bert, what’s wrong with those little girls?’” ‘Dunno!’ He never told Grandma, but he checked the cider. It had turned hard and we was swozzled.” wclarke@comcast.net