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Friday, April 22, 2005
Site Reconstruction News
I am currently developing our new site and it will be ready quite soon.
I hope you will enjoy it. If you have any ideas and tips for the site, please leave a message in the forum. I would love to hear from you.
The new web address is:
http://stillmeadow.ecwhost.com/
Thank you, Susan Stanley.
Gladys Taber
wrote straight from her
heart. She had that magical ability in her writing to share her world with
you, so you're not just reading her books, but sharing with her, her life
in the country throughout the four seasons of the year, her problems, her
challenges and her joys.
At Stillmeadow you put in your own garden,
tend it, then enjoy eating food grown with your own hands, of canning and
freezing it for the winter ahead. You lovingly cut your own flowers and make
comparisons with those grown by your neighbors. You meet the tradesmen, farmers
and friends who call at the farm and you learn their fascinating stories.
You share the thrill of discovering early American antiques; learn the secrets
of New England cookery. Above all else, you have the privilege of visiting
leisurely with her and all the unusual guests who have the habit of dropping
in at Stillmeadow Farm at all hours and from all sorts of places.
You are introduced to every one
in the village, romp with the most lovable and mischievous group of dogs
ever to chew a guest's hat, or win an occasional blue ribbon at the local
dog show. There is never a dull moment during your year at Stillmeadow, and
when you leave you know that you will return again and again, because it
is no further away than your favorite chair.
Mrs. Taber wrote with a warm and
earthy humor, laced with wisdom and lovingly tied with a mature faith in
God and humanity. Once you meet her and have shared with her her thoughts
on life, you will feel uplifted and see life with a different outlook. It
just isn't possible to do justice to her Stillmeadow books with this general
description, because they have a spiritual, lifelike reality which only comes
from reading them and of joining in with her personally.
Go straight to your bookstore and
order one of them, or look in used book stores or libraries. You'll see,
once you get to know her, you will not want her books to end.
Gladys
Taber's
books speak of serenity;
the delight in the day's tasks; the companionship with dogs and cats; the
pleasures of nature in the seasons' round; the appreciation of books and
music; the friendship of people; the deep and abiding conviction of the author
in the essential goodness of life.
She died on March 11, 1980, in
Orleans, Mass; on Cape Cod. She was 81 years old.
She continued writing up until her last days and left the following poem
as her epitaph;
TRIBUTE
PAGE
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capable browser
When I am gone
I beg no fanfare;
Indeed I shall not be there.
So no tears need be shed. -
They will not bring to me
Rock Harbor sunset
On a burning sea
Or Amber's purr-song, nor yet
.Wild geese waking me at dawn..
For I shall be dead -
Then greet the new day
Pretending I am not away.
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Introduction
to
Stillmeadow
From Stillmeadow
Seasons, 1950.
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(Click to view full size)
From
my desk I can look out through
the old bubbly glass panes in the window. There are twelve panes above, eight
panes below, and it is very hard to wash clear to the corners of them. But
since the house was built around 1690, I can only be thankful that the old
windows were never ripped out.
I look out past the great sugar
maples that overshadow the little house, and on to the meadow and the hill
where we planted the Christmas trees. The bottom of the meadow is a wild
tangled thicket, half swampy, and there grow the wold cranberries and the
dark wild iris and at the edge the wild red grapes with their sweet musky
flavor.
Pheasants flash up from the meadow,
and the rabbits and woodchucks live there, and the little velvet field mice,
and now and then a secret otter follows the course of the hidden brook. The
deer do not venture so near the house, but sometimes a red fox streaks up
the. hill
We have lived here more than fifteen
years, but a lifetime is too short to experience fully the beauty of the
meadow, for every day it has new loveliness, new wonder to discover.
And yet it has not changed much,
although I can mark how the young thicket has grown. We have left it to its
natural existence and that is why, perhaps, it symbolizes to me the security
we seek in a world highly unstable and changing.
The rest of our forty acres more
or less has, indeed, been a little changed. The old orchard lost a few trees
during the hurricane of '38, and thirteen came down in the back yard. The
woodland has more fallen limbs, and the cliffs are overgrown. The baby fruit
trees in the flowering lane are large and sturdy and have flowers in spring,
and once we had two seckel pears and three sweet apples! The plum tree did
begin to bear just as it got some kind of disease and had to be cut and
burned.
During the war, we turned over
all the arable land to our neighbor, friend, and mainstay, George, and cabbages
and corn and tomatoes and potatoes and cucumbers and squash grow thriftily
where the Indian paintbrush and black-eyed Susans and daisies and violets
and wild strawberries spread their delicate beauty.
Finally we began the farm pond.
This, in a way, is a restoration, for there was a pond there once where the
brook runs along the lowland, but the brook had been choked and lost itself
in a swamp. When the great steam shovel was lifting the black loam up and
making a steep hill of it, George stood looking thoughtfully at it. "That's
all the land from my upper fields," he said. And it is.
The pond is eight feet deep, provides
swimming in summer, skating in winter, fire protection all year round, and
a place for fish to grow. The banks, set with wildlife planting, help birds
through the cold seasons.
In our part of the country, nobody
is ever quite sure where the boundaries of the land are. Old fences, long
since gone, or gray rocks, or a certain dead chestnut tree, or a brook which
may have changed its course, these mark the edge of one's property. Now and
then a surveyor may scramble around a day or so and deliver an expensive
piece of paper, but the farm folk go right back on using the woodland or
picking the grapes where they always have, and this is as it should be. We
do not own the land, the land owns us. The survey we had when we wanted to
turn over land to George for his house was like a Christmas present, for
it turned out we had considerably more than forty acres, enough to let William,
George's brother, have a house too.
Once in a while I try to picture
what life in the country might have been if George and William had not lived
right across the road, and then I know the main thing in buying an old house
in the country is to settle near good neighbors. The natives on our valley
are not the quaint folk so many writers talk about; the only quaint folk
around here are the few city week-enders, and some of them are quaint enough
for any fiction.
When we bought Stillmeadow, it
was on a purely emotional basis. I knew the minute I set foot in it that
this was the house I belonged to. I had no remotest idea of whether it was
sound, and a good buy, and would be easy to live in. We never even looked
in the well to see whether there was any water in it or not!
It was winter, and we had to walk
down the road up to our knees in icy slush. There was the little white farmhouse
under the great spread of the maples, and there was the worn doorsill deep
with snow, and inside there was a great fireplace, blackened with the smoke
of a century. Old iron kettles rosy with rust hung from the heavy crane.
Actually the house was in terrible
shape. Renters had let the plumbing fixtures freeze, cracked bowls and burst
faucets were upstairs and down, the wallpaper was stained, and the plaster
fallen from some ceilings. the floors were patched with old cigarette tins.
Debris sifted over every room; one wonders where all the old rags and broken
bottles can come from !
There was a furnace, flaking with
rust, and a cracked boiler, an ancient sink propped on unsteady legs, and
rats had spread their ruin everywhere.
Climbing the steep stairs, we had
to be careful not to fall through into the cellar.
We didn't have any money for repairs
either. Taking on the mortgage was an act of rash courage; the down payment
scraped the bottom of the barrel.
But the house spoke to me.
So we moved in and began to learn
how to put on wallpaper without having it fold back on us, how to patch plaster
and not get duck soup from it, and various other skills.
Now, as I look back, I often think
of all the people who lived and loved, were happy or sad, those who were
born and those who died in this house. For there is a continuity of living
if your house has sheltered its own down the long sweep of years.
In our turn, we have cherished
it, warmed it, and it offered us days rich with contentment. It has given
us back-breaking hours of work and the satisfaction of tangible results from
our work. It has given us fire on the hearth on long evenings, spring sunlight
through the windows, cool moonlight on the doorsills in autumn.
This is a small house, but wide
enough for fifteen cockers, two cats, an Irish setter, children growing up,
friends who drop in overnight and stay three weeks.
The story of our life is written
in the white tulips set in the Quiet Garden, in tomatoes ripening on the
vine, in puppies bouncing through the great snowdrifts. It is inscribed with
the scent of dark purple lilacs, the satiny touch of eggplant, the swift
falling of golden leaves.
As seasons come to our gentle valley,
Stillmeadow is always our personal adventure in happiness.
Through the Year
at
Stillmeadow

Monthly entries from Gladys
Taber's books.
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