O, Pioneers

Appeared in Pioneer Press newspapers,
December 23, 2011

“Every church has at least one Grand Lady,” wrote Pastor McPeek of the Millburn Congregational Church, “a person whose wisdom, wit, generosity and dedication is an inspiration to everyone.  At Millburn we are fortunate to have several women who qualify for that title.  Certainly Beatrice Anderson, leader, worker, historian, and inspiration, qualifies for our title of first grand lady and gracious friend.”

Mrs. Anderson was the longest resident of our new old home, occupying it for some 60 years. And she seems to have been the very spirit of the town, having seen, and embodied, so much of its history.  She also wrote that history, as one of the area’s foremost chroniclers (of, apparently, two).

She was born Beatrice Low in 1897 in Waukegan, where Low Avenue commemorates her family’s early connection to Lake County.  Her mother was a member of the Bonner family, among the county’s original settlers (also recognized in our geography, with Bonner Road in Wauconda, among other commemorations). 

She purchased the house from its builders, the Strang family, the original thanes of Millburn, which was first known as Strang’s Settlement or Strang’s Corners.  The name Millburn – Scots for mill creek, the current name of the waterway that trickles through our land – was suggested by George Trotter, whose daughter, Helen, married Jake Strang, builder of our house.  Beatrice sold the house to Bonner relatives, from whom we bought it.

According to Beatrice’s history (which can be found on the Web site of the Historic Millburn Community Association: http://www.hmca-il.org/default.htm), many of the early Scots and German settlers of the area, headed west long before Horace Greeley’s exhortation, fleeing New England’s economic Panic of 1837.  They arrived in Lake County, then populated primarily by the Potawatomi tribe, found in it rich soil, game and fish, and began building. By 1856 the Strangs, who came south from Canada, were prosperous enough to construct the fine brick store at the corner of what are now Grass Lake Road and Route 45 – the epicenter of the famed Millburn Strangler -- as well as our house which, as Esther Foster, the area’s other historian, describes it, “stands beside the stream [Mill Creek] in nineteenth century magnificence today.”

I thank Mrs. Foster for the kind words, but “magnificence” may be a stretch.  It is, as the song says, a very, very, very fine house – strong and honest, lovely in a way that bespeaks good character.  Its building signaled, perhaps, the end of the town’s frontier days and a new degree of establishment and prosperity.  But it’s very much a provincial beauty; one that speaks to its time and circumstances, the people who made it, the way they thought and the things they valued, foremost among which were commitment and perseverance.  They built a house that, 150 years later, is standing strong and still telling their story.

So, we’ve set down new roots among the deep ones of these families that pioneered this area.  A different kind of pioneer, meanwhile, is pulling its roots up, as the Pioneer Press newspaper chain, unfortunately, is discontinuing its North Group of papers, serving the communities around Old Mill Creek – Gurnee, Grayslake, Lake Villa and Antioch. 

And that, too, is in the pioneer tradition.  The Strangs and their neighbors came here out of economic necessity; in another difficult time, Pioneer Press is leaving for the same reason.  It’s a pity these towns will be left without the papers that helped form their identities and gave them a sense of community.  But I suspect that gap will be filled before long

Personally, I’ll emulate the original settlers who came here and stuck it out – the Strangs and Bonners, and, especially, Beatrice Anderson, the teller of the tale.  While this will be the last installment of this column to appear before this paper is shuttered, I’ll continue it online.  If you’re interested in coming along, please join me online at http://talesoftumbledownfarm.blogspot.com/.  Hope to see you there.

The Permanent Staycation

Appeared in Pioneer Press newspapers
 December 2, 2010

My brother-in-law Chris used to be somewhat envious of my eminent retireability.  An energetic and ambitious chap himself, he had a hard time imagining how he’d fill his days without the demands of work consuming their better part.  I, on the other hand, seemed born for repose, requiring only a steady supply of books, movies, and music to be completely happy.

            Yet, somehow, I find myself in possession of this farm that shatters this happy vision of idleness by A) requiring me to stay at my town job in order to meet the financial burden I’ve created for myself with said farm, and B) presenting insatiable demand for labor.  There is always something – or a dozen somethings – that need to be done there.

            And, surprisingly, I like that.  Who knew I needed to be productive?  But I’ve finally recognized that it’s the busyness that makes the downtime sweet.  And the farm always presents occupation that feels worthwhile.

            So, my happiness with the place extends even so far as accepting its crushing of my boyhood dream of doing nothing at all.  It has much the same effect on other leisurely concepts, such as vacationing. And that’s more than okay. I relish the idea of the farm as our permanent staycation – a place that offers beauty and interest and activity, without ever having to go anywhere to find them.

            Of course, this is a pretty easy sacrifice for me to make, as I’ve grown to see vacation as the self-infliction of virtually unfulfillable hopes and expectations. To me it offers the perfect formula for disappointment:  invest emotional energy and considerable resources in planning and looking forward to an escape, with wishful expectations of life-changing events or, at least, conspicuous pleasure; almost invariably undercut by the grim realities of  body scans, luggage claims, lines for everything, yahoos everywhere, mounting expense, the pressure to have fun despite these undertows, and the thousand other cuts that bleed the vacation experience dry; all of which requires extra work before, after and, probably, during the time off in order to earn it. 

           Now, I probably wouldn’t feel this way had I not been fortunate enough to have done a good deal of traveling.  And, gripes aside, I have enjoyed it, learned from it, grown from it.  I’m interested in everywhere and generally game – if you asked me to go somewhere, I’d probably agree to.  I’d look forward to it until it actually drew close -- at which point I’d find myself wishing I could stay home, instead.  Then I’d go and enjoy it – but be glad to get back home again.

            The thing is, I never feel like being somewhere other than where I am.  And now I feel this strong impulse to be in this particular place -- to know every inch of it, invest myself in it, see life through it.

            I certainly don’t suggest that I haven’t much new to see and do; that it wouldn’t be profitable, eye-opening, expansive to continue traveling to new parts of the world.  But I do feel somewhat like Breaker Morant, protagonist of the great Australian film of the same name, who, when offered a means of escape from his unjust imprisonment, and the opportunity to go on the run and “see the world,” replies simply, “I’ve seen it.”  He longs for a home, for the place he belongs.  That I get.  And I feel I’ve found it.  So that’s where I want to be.

            Now, once I tie myself to this blessed plot I will, undoubtedly, catch the travel bug and think only of the far-off lands I can no longer reach.  Such is being human.  At least being this human.

            But, for now, I think I’ll just set a spell.

My Shiny, Deadly Toys

Appeared in Pioneer Press newspapers
November 15, 2010

The van died the other day. The minivan that the kids grew up in and that came to be one of those things that your hating together makes you a family. 

It went in for a simple, out-patient-type recall and never left the hospital.  We discovered we’d been driving around on a broken axle, among other maladies.  So, rather than pump more money into a 10-year old junker with 100,000-plus miles on it, I was forced – forced! -- to drive home the truck I’d been spoiling to get ever since we bought the farm.

            This may be the decisive step in this transition process – the passing of the ultimate symbol of our former, gas-guzzling suburban life for this big, honking symbol of our new gas-guzzling rural life.  Don’t worry – we’re going to grow stuff to offset all the carbon.  

            “Awesome,” said Jefferson, checking out the new wheels.  They’re puny compared to his big rig, but large compared to, say, something merely large.  “Now you’re too legit to quit,” he added, generously suggesting that I’d reached critical mass in my farmerization.

            While I don’t think that’s quite true yet, I have, at least overcommitted us to the point that we’re “too broke to joke” – so there’s no turning back.  While salivating over the inevitable truck to come, I’d hoped to forestall this purchase for a while.  It would be nice if there were at least one way in which we were not hemorrhaging money – but, alas, it was not to be. The fates spoke clearly through the recall they providentially issued on the van, and who am I to resist the manifest will of the universe?

            But this farmin’ stuff does require a whole lot of gear.  And its price goes a long way toward explaining the chronic economic plight of the American farmer.  This stuff is as expensive as it is powerful – which equals powerful expensive.

            It’s also powerful dangerous.  Everything on a farm seems to involve sharp edges – most of which have engines behind them, turning mere hazard into truly awesome splattering power.

            Let’s start with the tractors, Fat Man and Little Boy.  Little Boy is more a riding mower-plus than a full-on tractor, though he can do a lot of work.  But, because the model is most often for lawn use, there are all sorts of safety features built in for civilians. 

            Fat Man, on the other hand, the grown-up tractor, is meant for more serious use – and assumes you know a thing or two.  This one’s for the heavy-duty work in the big fields, with the rotary cutter.  It’s driven by the tractor’s PTO (power take off) which, the manual points out in its own subtle way, will mess you up most seriously.

            Then there’s Da Ripper, my DR brush mower, an industrial-strength weed whacker that you push on two wheels and can take out small trees.

And, completing this year’s purchases of ways to jeopardize my health, is Husky, the Husqvarna chain saw.  We’ve taken down a good few trees together already.  I’ve got a lot of respect for Husky. He demands it.  Look at them teeth. 

Kevin taught me the proper etiquette to show one’s chainsaw the respect it deserves.  It includes appropriate attire, including the Kevlar chaps, the steel-toed boots, and the groovy helmet with attached ear protectors and face mask.  Looks quite ridiculous – but better to be silly with all my parts still on.  Otherwise, we could well be screening “The Illinois Chainsaw Self Massacre”.

            Kevin’s doing his thoughtful best to get me past the tenderfoot stage with my tender feet still attached.  “It’s a great way to lose a leg,” he warned after an early session when I’d gone at it in shorts.

            Thank goodness for these senseis looking over my untrained shoulder. With their help I might be able to avoid bleeding the red in addition to all this green.

A Constructive Year

Photo:  Kevin Lyons

Appeared in Pioneer Press newspapers
November 4, 2010

We bought the farm – in the literal sense, though it’s sometimes felt that we might get the figurative, as well – just about one year ago.  It has been a highly instructive and memorable twelve-month.  That is not to be confused with, say, “fun”.

A few times, in the period between signing the purchase contract in mid-October and closing one month later, we not infrequently asked one another if we really wanted to go through with it, noting that now was the time to change minds, and that that would be fine, because we had it good right where we were.  And there have been plenty of times in the year since that we’ve had occasion to think that letting this particular dream go might have proved the better part of valor.

But light is beginning to appear at the end of the tunnel – maybe even closer. It’s looking like a real, by-god house now, with a roof, windows, and doors. And, as with other forms of labor, the pain is largely forgotten when the good part arrives.    

Jefferson, our designer/builder said construction would take eight months, and, thanks to the great work of his team and a run of unreasonably good weather straight through October, we’re looking to be a bit ahead of that schedule. 

When we first announced our plans, a friend of Lis gave us a copy of the old Cary Grant chestnut, “Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House,” an ironic primer on everything that can go wrong in this process. And we fully expected to endure Blandings’ fate.  But, so far, things have gone quite well (clearly, I should not be saying this out loud). 

There’ve been a few surprises, of the kind that are inevitable with a house this old. But Jefferson and crew have taken them in stride, devised good fixes, and knocked ‘em down without much ado.  I’m delighted to report that our experience thus far has been entirely unworthy of cinematic treatment.

It’s actually been a pretty enjoyable process to observe and document – from paper, to hole in the ground; then a frame, then filling it in. It’s a well-established drill, with an extraordinary number of parts and interlocking systems.  And seeing them come together from scratch actually makes the previously mysterious workings of the whole organism that is the house reasonably understandable, even to me. 

And it’s cool to watch this well-drilled team do its thing.  The framing was pretty much done by just two guys:  garrulous Dave and quiet Brian. There’s Kent, the project manager, a historian of housecraft and construction sage.  There’s Mitch, who manages the million details of scheduling, ordering, keeping everything organized and moving. There’s the cast of a thousand subcontractors:  plumbers, electricians, roofers.  And then, of course, there’s Jefferson, the dynamo, generating enough new ideas to fill his monster truck every time we talk.  If he were still wielding the tools instead of running the operation, we’d be living there by now.

It’s a good crew, highly skilled and a pleasure to work with. And, it seems to us, the guys have all had a real feel for the place and taken pride in their contributions.  As Dave told us, when we were getting in his way, marveling over the second floor he’d just created, “This is my view until you move in!”

We’d originally hoped that would be by Christmas.  And it would have been, dammit, had we not lost two good months to the invention of credit default swaps. We’re tantalizingly close.  But the stuff that looks the biggest – the making of the box -- actually goes the fastest; it’s the fine, painstaking, finishing stuff that lies ahead and will keep us visiting the farm, rather than living there, for a while to come.

But we can pretty much see it all now, and begin to feel what it will be like to live there. So, it’s felt like a long year.  But the evidence is beginning to show it’s been a year pretty well spent.

Hi-Ho the Derry-o

Appeared in Pioneer Press newspapers
October 21, 2010

It all begins when the farmer takes a wife.  So it was for my colleague in the dell, and so it was for me.

            I was a relatively happy slacker, a few months out of college and no closer to a job when, very irresponsibly, indeed, I asked Lis to marry me.  And, just as crazily, she said, “Yes.”

So the slacker took a job.

But hardly in the dell.  Our first move was to New York, miles and years and lives from here, when the farm was unimagined – and when, as a die-hard city rat (self-styled), I’d have scoffed at such a suggestion.  Lis longed to have a car when we lived in New York, in order to escape it now and again; my view was, “Where would you want to go? – we’re already in New York.”

And then the slacker took a child.  We’d always agreed we’d go where one of our families was at baby time.  Lis is from Concord, Mass., I’m from here (Glenview, originally).  And here there was a job and a house, and my parents who had only one kid, versus the five siblings Lis has ringed around Boston. So, with Aly, our first, on her way, Chicago it was.

Domesticity, then, has driven my major decisions – all of which have been far removed from my original expectations.  I told myself I’d marry late, if ever; I’d always live in Chicago; then I’d never leave New York; then I was home to stay in Glenview.  I no longer expect to ever be right about such things or even try to predict what might be next.

            And is there any environment more emblematic of domesticity than a farm?  The farmer takes a wife. The wife takes a child.  And on, and on, creating an expanding circle of relation and interdependence, a hopefully peaceable kingdom.

I love our farm and am always happy when I’m there (well, when I’m not in despair over a broke-down tractor, or  barn door I can’t budge, or some other act of fix-itivity beyond my ken).  But is there any possibility that I’d be in such a place on my own?  Not bloody likely.  As a guy alone, I would, undoubtedly, occupy a simple man cave, Oscar Madison style.

But Lis loves this place in a way that’s so irresistible that I can’t help but share it, even when oppressed by all of its demands.  She loves riding the tractor, helping with the endless chores, gazing across the fields, just breathing the air.

            Concord is a historic town that keeps it agricultural roots well watered.  And it’s spacious, zoning keeping the buildings low and well spread to retain its character. Consequently, she’s never been entirely comfortable in the places we’ve lived before – certainly not in cheek-by-jowl Brooklyn, and not even in pleasantly suburban Glenview.

            But Old Mill Creek feels just like home to her because of the openness, the history (relatively young though it is compared to Concord), the horseyness, the beauty of the place, all of which fit her like a well-worn and -loved glove

And that makes it home to me.  This farm would be inconceivable without Lis. She’s its heart.   And, after places chosen for different necessities – work, family -- this is the place we chose together, for us.

She always said she’d follow me anywhere.  And she has.  But, at the same time, I’ve been following her -- all the way home.

Happy Birthday, Girl!

Ganging Agley

Appeared in Pioneer Press newspapers

September 30, 2010

Poetry being an even more romantically non-remunerative endeavor than farming, Robert Burns, the Scots national poet, had to supplement his versifying by working the land, earning him the sobriquet of “The Ploughman Poet.”  I’m not much of either of those things, but I had a highly Burnsian experience the other day.

Our north and east fields hadn’t been cut all season.  We didn’t have the equipment, and our focus has been on getting the house built.  So, the fields were about up to my neck.  But I was told that they wouldn’t grow in right next year if I didn’t get them cut this, so I went at it. 

I borrowed a beauty of a John Deere 4320 (almost sounds like I know what I’m talking about, doesn’t it)?  It’s a nice, big hunk of tractor.  Ron, my Deere guy (yes, I now have a Deere guy) showed me what I needed to know to get going – and so I did.

And it was kind of a blast.  It went through that high growth like it was nothing at all. And, as I cruised along, I noticed a field mouse, running on ahead of me, doing everything he could to get out of my way. I’d see him dashing through the leavings in the last row I’d cut, rising over the top and diving back under, reminding me of the pair of cheetahs I’d seen bring down a gazelle in the Serengeti – just a rustling in the tall grass till they resurfaced like a wave over the crest of the savannah and brought down their kill.

All of which put me in mind of Rabbie Burns and, probably, his best-known poem, “To A Mouse,” in which he disturbs said rodent’s nest in his role as ploughman, sending his poet side into some lyrical, fellow-travelers-to-the-grave stuff.  The poem contains perhaps his most quoted line, “The best-laid schemes of mice and men oft go awry,” or, as it’s rendered in his Scots’ pidgin, “aft gang agley.”

In any case, I was glad he got away.

I’d quickly knocked off the first half of the north field when Lis arrived with our neighbor, Marie. So, I turned off the Deere and clambered down to chat a bit.

It had occurred to me that Ron hadn’t shown me how to refuel the beast – presumably because it was too simple and self evident to bother with.  But, making my way around the tractor, it was not all that simple.  Nor self evident.

I asked the ladies for their thoughts.  Lis isn’t experienced with tractors – but, again, how hard can it be?  And Marie, who used to spend six hours a week cutting around her big, beautiful place, does know a thing or two.  So, we looked it over. 

We found one orange cap clearly marked “Oil”.  So, not there.  And we found another, smallish cap marked with an icon of a kind of tank containing a droplet. So, could be that.  There was a dip stick in the neighborhood, so it occurred to me that it might be oil.  But we just couldn’t find anything else that looked like a gas tank – a feature that is wonderfully obvious on my smaller Deere mower.  So, the panel concluded this must be it.  Marie did ask if this big rig might take diesel.  But Ron hadn’t mentioned it.  There was no operator’s manual.  And my smaller machine took regular gas.  So we went with that.

And it ran just fine.  I finished the north field and rode down to the east one, along the creek. And I’d happily knocked off about half of it -- wondering all the way why I was getting a flashing exclamation point on the dash, along with a message reading “Lo Fuel” -- which was crazy, because, after careful deliberation, I’d just filled the tank, right? – when it briefly sputtered and stopped flat.

Could it already be out of gas?  Well, maybe it just burns that much.  It did say “Lo Fuel”.  So, I added some more.  And nothing.

So, I looked around.  And it was then that I figured out how to open the little plastic hatch thing, up in front of the steering wheel, that I couldn’t get open before.  But that couldn’t matter, right, because who’d put the gas tank there . . . on top . . . with no words or symbol to indicate it’s there?  Well, turns out John Deere would.

Sure enough, when I flipped that hatch open, there was an obvious gas cap.  With the word “Diesel” on it.  Yeah, I’d filled the oil tank with gas.

So, I called Ron, and he talked me through it.  Drain the oil/gas mixture – about 16 quarts’ worth.  Put back that much just-plain-oil.  And fill the right tank with the right fuel. Check, check, and check.  And nuthin’.  Just that sad, sad sound of an engine not starting.

But I’m a farmer now – resourceful and undaunted. And embarrassed.  I would get this thing to work!  Unless I didn’t.

And, ultimately, after toying with me some more, it did start up. And I finished the field and got it back into the barn.

But not until I’d spent a couple of grim hours, stranded in that half-cut field, reflecting on – and loudly cursing – my cruel fate. And that’s when Burns and his mouse came back to me.  My day had ganged seriously agley.  But, in the end, it proved to be a good one.  I’d been neither helpless nor hopeless.  Some of my instincts had been on target – if not quite sufficiently.  I’d asked the right questions – though I’d answered them wrongly.  I’d learned a few things.  And both the mouse and I lived to tell the tale.

Bypass Coronary

Appeared in Pioneer Press newspapers

September 19, 2010

The message from El Capitan was urgent.  There was a public meeting taking place, and I had to be there.  El Cap is a lifelong local and knows what gives in our new area.  In fact, some 25 years ago his parents tried to buy the place we’re now laboring on, so, when he speaks of municipal matters, I pay attention.

            The meeting in question was to review the Route 45 Bypass project and the options under consideration by the appropriate powers.  Our place is about three-tenths of a mile from Route 45, and the famed “Millburn Strangler” – a traffic choke point in the middle of the Millburn Historic District.  I’m told that the back-ups are ugly at rush hours, though I’ve never experienced the phenomenon, myself.

            We were aware of the long planning and debate over the bypass when we bought our place.  We’d been assured that it would go to the west of 45; we’re to the east, so we largely put it out of our minds.

            Exactly who it was who gave us this assurance, I’m no longer sure.  It may have been the folks we bought from.  If so, it was not merely a matter of salesmanship on their part; our neighbors, Kevin and Marie, long-time residents of the area, confirm that since the beginning of the planning process – some 20 years or so – the plan had been for the bypass to go west, through the more settled Lindenhurst, and that some land had even been purchased for the purpose.

            However, some of the folks who live on that side of 45 insist they’d never been warned when they bought their houses; and others grant that it was mentioned, but that they’d been assured that it would never happen.

            But it looks like it will, in fact, happen, one way or another. And Capitan was exercised because it looked a whole lot like it was going to happen to us.  Perusing the Web site dedicated to the project, I found a map showing the nine proposed routes for the bypass under consideration.  I was particularly intrigued by the one that went directly through our barn.

While convenient, this was not so much what we were looking for when we moved to the country.

So, I sped to the meeting – over the precise roads in question, making good time, with no traffic back-up. The good news:  of the nine original possible routes, only three were still on the table – and none of them turned my house into a toll booth.

Also pretty good news – from our perspective/side of the road -- is that two of the three remaining approaches place the bypass on the west side of 45, in accordance with what we’re told was the original plan.  But one option would go east of 45, not too near our place, but not only lopping off a piece of our neighbors’ beautiful spread, but also cutting through land that’s part of the Historic District.

Now, I hate to get all NIMBY.  I’m public-spirited, and want to work with my neighbors to find the best solution to shared problems.  But the very reason we made this MBY was for its beautiful, semi-rural character.  It’s extremely unique.  Although located just a couple miles from

Grand Avenue

, featuring not just Gurnee Mills but virtually every national sprawl-denizen business you could think of, it feels like it’s a hundred miles in the country.

To get to Old Mill Creek you turn off Grand, pass through a half-mile of regular suburbia, a half-mile of horsey suburbia, and then you’re in beautiful open country. This combination, of rural peace, space, and beauty, with high proximity to – well, maybe not quite civilization, but, at least, the modern world -- is very appealing, and hard to beat.  It would just be a terrible pity to lose this unique character to more asphalt for the sake of two pinch-points a day.

But, such is politics, right? It’s the balancing of needs and interests. Sometimes, it actually produces the best outcome.  So, time to get involved, I guess.

It seems this move is making not only a real neighbor out of me, but a citizen, as well.  Of course, these things do go together pretty naturally -- but it's still a change for me after being a passive suburbanite in a more developed place where things just seemed to get done.  Here civic decisions seem more immediate, real, and made by people.

Citizenship can be damned inconvenient.  But it’s a lot better than the alternatives.