Sweet Home

Sweet Home, Canada, Canada

            Although snowflakes drift from the low-hanging gray clouds, signs of spring abound. Now, I serve supper in daylight, the chickens are laying more eggs, and our goat has kidded. Flower and herb seeds thrust up tiny leaves from the flats positioned on warm mats beneath grow light. And in six weeks or so, one morning I will hear the sweet voice of the White Throated Sparrow singing, “Poor Sam, Peabody, Peabody” or as Canadians say, “Sweet Home, Canada, Canada”.

            The migrating sparrow with its white bib will peck at seeds beneath my bird feeder and flutter through the pine trees shading our home. For about two weeks, his voice is part of the fugue composed of spring peepers, and the calling of the chick-a-dees. When the first round of warm weather moves across my farm, the White-Throated Sparrow flies north.

            In the early 1990’s, Tasha invited my family to attend her Summer Solstice Party. So near June 21^st, we packed our car and drove across Canada, and onward through upstate New York, commenting about places that had appeared in James F. Cooper’s novels. Finally, we rolled through the Green Mountains of Vermont and parked our car near Tasha’s barn. Her corgis greeted and escorted us to Tasha who was baking a cake while discussing plans for the party with Beth Mathers. We shared hugs, and John carried our luggage up to an upstairs room.

            “What can I do to help?” I slipped on an apron. “What needs to be done?”

            “Why don’t you water the large pots? The ones scattered about outside,” Tasha said.

            I found a watering can in the greenhouse and wandered the garden, sprinkling a tall foxglove, a container holding a white bleeding-heart, and finally, Tasha’s beloved bay tree. A cloud of blue forget-me-nots hovered over beds filled with blooming lettuce poppies and daisies. The fragrance of peonies floated across the lawn. From a hemlock tree, a familiar voice sang, “Sweet Home, Canada, Canada”.

            While I had known that White-Throated Sparrows nested in the north, I had assumed these birds traveled on to Canada. While many other members of his clan had probably traveled above the border, this fellow had chosen well. Who wouldn’t want to live in Tasha Tudor’s garden? A blur of colors and fragrances, protected by woods and with a pond near-by made the location the perfect spot for a nest. While I continued to water plants, the sun drifted behind the trees, and the sparrow filled the evening with his voice.

Teatime near the hearth

                                                                        A Different World

            When I visited Tasha, we normally remained at her cottage, enjoying the fire, the trilling of the canaries, and the rasping speech of the parrots. We filled the hours baking brownies or small cakes for tea time, stitching on handwork, and Tasha constantly drew. The bird feeder provided drama as the blue jays and chick-a-dees battled for the seeds. Of course, the corgis entertained us as they raced through the house or wandered the barnyard. A couple of times we ambled over to Seth and Marjorie’s home for tea and also watched the latest version of Jane Eyre, a book that Tasha loved. While neither of us wanted to step into the boots of the Jane and experience the dark world of Mr. Rochester, the story offered a view into a different time and romantic world.

            But one morning as tiny snowflakes sifted from the low-slung clouds, Tasha announced a trip to town. We climbed into her green Volvo with heated seats, rumbled down her long driveway bordered by snowbanks and white birch, and headed into Brattleboro.

“See this mist of snow? It tends to snow up here, but will only be cloudy in farther down the mountain.”

Of course, Tasha not only lived in a world of her own making, but dwelled in a place that selected its own weather. As her car traveled the road winding around and down the mountain. A little at a time, the snow faded to a few flakes, and then abated when we reached Brattleboro, a classic New England town, with clapboard homes, brick stores and narrow streets. Pedestrians bustled around the shops and hurried down the sidewalks. When one woman walked by in leggings that looked like long underwear, Tasha and I eyed each other.

“You never know what you will see these days,” she remarked. “I would think she’d be warmer in a long skirt.”

We visited the post office in order to mail a small package, and drove on to the food coop where Tasha bought the supplies that she could not grow. A bag of flour, cocoa, and a stash of small chocolates…she kept the bag in the top drawer that held silverware…and finally, a bunch of spinach to feed the canaries.

“I could take you out for tea, or we could go home and enjoy the last of the brownies.”

“Let’s go home.” I knew that few bakers could rival Tasha’s skills, and her fireplace called to me.

Back in the Volvo, Tasha steered her car back up the mountain. Snow frosted the dark green hemlock trees, and yet a stream edging the road still rushed around rocks and under candle-levered layers of ice. As we approached her farm, we entered the mist of snow that blurred the outline of her barn and welcomed us back to Tasha’s world.