Fall 2007 Newsletter

Thirty Years, Six Views

Bob: Thirty years ago a colleague mentioned to me that there was a farm down the road from his that was for sale. He noted that the owner, Mrs. Bryant, did not want to sell to a developer but wanted one more family to enjoy the land. We bit, and for the past three decades have been stewards of this farm. We’ve grown one generation and are well into the second as the years march along. Memories have been piled one on another giving us a cache of recollections about the farm, the family and the people we’ve met along the way.

The very first time we visited the farm we met Mrs. Bryant and toured the house that was filled floor to ceiling with memories. I remember a room that housed bureau after bureau of buttons. Thousands and thousands of buttons sewn to cards, silver in this drawer, gold in the next. That was only one room in the house and the house was only one building on a farm that held many. It was loaded with stuff. We wanted to see the property but it was truly overgrown, in fact most of it was impenetrable. We were instructed to follow the path up by the barn, past the ancient dump truck, and up into the woods where ‘the big tree’ was. Jean and I climbed through the bramble passing a number of years of succession that had taken over the fields. Some trees were already six inches across in their zeal to take back the open ground. We entered the woods and followed serpentine turns through old growth hickories and oaks, and as the path began to bend downhill we saw the big tree. It got bigger as we approached and the small box at its base turned into an old milk box that neighborhood kids were using to climb into the beckoning branches. The tree was massive, old and seemed to hold the secrets of the past. It was then and there we decided to buy the farm.

After closing with the realtors we immediately drove out to explore the farm again and to see what had been cleaned out. Most buildings were empty, (with some notable exceptions), and as we gathered on the apron to the barn about to return to Northport, a sudden rain shower passed and a most beautiful rainbow covered the farm. Jean and I looked at each other smiled and hugged. We knew that we had made the right decision no matter what the future held.

Jean: When we decided to buy the farm we were met with lots of different opinions from friends and family. My mom thought we were crazy, most friends thought we were biting off more than we could chew, but my 90 year old grandfather said, “Ya, you can never go wrong buying land.” The kids: Ben (4 1/2), Kir (almost 3) and David (just over 1) had mixed reactions to leaving their home in Northport , the park and their friends. The farm was wildly overgrown, filled with collapsing buildings, derelict trucks and cars, open cisterns from the time it was a chicken farm.

The move was unbelievable: It started with an accident which sent both my husband and Bob Jenkins to the hospital for a few hours, then three grueling trips with a 24 hour rental truck to a house I wasn’t at all fond of. The final caravan on Sunday consisted of overloaded vans, wood scraps and pallets, a flat tire on the boat trailer along the way, and total exhaustion. My mom had kept the kids overnight and at six PM deposited them and a Mac Donald’s dinner in my “new” kitchen complete with a gas/kerosene stove, a 1929 porcelain sink with automatic dishwasher by American Standard and a fireplace with raccoons living in the chimney! Mom didn’t stay for dinner. I wanted to cry.

The next day, Bob left for work, teaching a new and exciting program at Northport High and I was left at the farm with three tots, a million boxes, no car, no phone, and no idea what I was doing there. From the upstairs bathroom window I saw a ground hog surface from somewhere under the house then found a nest of hornets in the bedroom wall. Kirsten decided not to be potty trained and David managed to get out of the porch door and head for the street on his wobbly legs which allowed the dog to get out and disappear. But, with nowhere to go but up, that's what we did. By the end of the week the barn was ready for a farm warming Halloween party replete with a live band to introduce our friends to our new digs!

Looking around now, each part of the farm, our home, the buildings, and animals, flood my mind with memories of what was and is still to come. The children are now adults, two married and one with children that are growing up on the farm. These thirty years of life here have made us into the people we are and have touched the lives of so many of you as well. In the end Papa was right, investing in the land was a good thing.

Ben: I recall the move to the farm as a unwanted change in my life. My mom, thinking it was cute as well as functional, dressed me up in overalls and packed us in the car to drive to an old smelly house. I hated the overalls and complained that I didn’t want to go to the new place everyone was excited about.

For the first few years I disliked the farm. No longer was I steps from the park and playground where I spend my afternoons with my mom and dad playing with other children. Now I found that I had to keep myself busy or follow my parents around as they worked on the new property. With all the work that needed to be done with the house and land and only my parents to do it I found life boring and our new house uncomfortable.

There were some things that made up for the boredom. A man with a giant tractor we named ‘Crazy John’ came to clear the fields and I enjoyed watching him do tree work without a saw. He’d take that big two cylinder John Deere and simply run over the trees then the bush hog attached to the back would make an ungodly noise as splinters of wood rained down everywhere. Seeing the land open up was neat for sure but with that open land came unwanted responsibilities; planting, weeding and picking strawberries. At first it was just planting. Later I would be awoken to go pick strawberries at dawn in the mosquito infested field, picking as many boxes as I could before getting on the bus with red-stained hands and lips.

The workload of a farm child is vastly different from that of a typical suburban youngster. My responsibilities included picking the droppings from the pony stall, collecting the eggs and even milking goats all before I was ten. In the fall I would get picked up from school to pick pumpkins in other fields. We’d fill the van then ride on top of said pumpkins as the sun set. In order to keep the fields clean my father would attach what was once a horse drawn sickle bar mower to the back of our small tractor and drag me around raising the cutting bar up and down as obstacles warranted. The bar was heavy and my Mom and grandparents worried that I was going to lose a leg to this medieval machine.

As the farm expanded, my parents friends and dad’s students would help us with projects. These older people were my main source of companionship, (aside from my siblings), for many years. I was introduced to music from these folks as they would happily comply with my urges to sift through their tape collections and let me listen to tunes in their cars or on a portable radio. I can recall fetching beers and tools for them and listening to them sing along with the radio, explaining who the singers were and which bands were the best. We would often play frisbee or volleyball or just wrestle around till one of us got hurt.

Kir: Having the farm as the backdrop for my childhood was an incredible gift. I think that may have been one of the few things that Mom and Dad knew would be true when they decided to move out to this run down farmhouse in Setauket. I don’t think they visualized the animals, or the class trips, the spring courses, or the busy festivals... but I think they pictured us; running and laughing, forging secret hideouts in the fields, and inventing elaborate games across the rolling hills. And we did not disappoint.

I have vivid memories of ripping down the hill in front of the barn on big wheels, over and over again until our legs couldn’t carry us up the hill any more. I remember searching the woods in excited terror when my older brother convinced us that an escaped convict was hiding there. Loosefoot was his name and the word still brings a smile to Ben’s face.

The swing in the woods that is now a favorite destination for all our summer camp kids (and for my son Kelan!), was made and hung just for us over 25 years ago... and we spent hours finding new ways to soar through the sky on that old cut out tire.

As the farm began to evolve, even it’s workload became a part of our playground. Collecting eggs, feeding hay, scooping grain and serving it to hungry mouths is all great fun for a curious child. Mornings in early June we would rise to pick strawberries in the field so dad could bring them with him to work at Northport HS. It wasn’t our favorite activity to be sure, (though weeding the same field was far worse!), but we found fun in even the mundane, as a rotten berry became a fantastic piece of ammunition which would launch from the hand of whomever plucked it and land KERSPLAT against the wincing form of one of our siblings... we never left the field without huge red stains across our backs.

As I write this, my son Kelan has just come in from a full day of camp at the farm. His feet are crusted with dirt, he is sweaty and tired and cranky and every bit of him reminds me of my own history with this little spot of earth. He is seven years old now, and has spent more that half his life here, and remembers little from before moving here at 3 years old (the same age I was when we moved to the farm). I love watching him grow up here. It’s fun to mark the similarities, and interesting to see the differences. But most importantly, watching him grow up here is a gift, and I think that is the one thing I was sure of when I decided to move back here with him.

Dave: I spent the first half of my life on the farm and during these formidable years I anchored myself to that farm, much like the great white oak has over its lifetime. My memories are filled with togetherness through toil and play. The Benner family had very unique chores compared to the other neighborhood families; like weeding your row of strawberry plants, feeding a barnyard of animals, and landscaping with a large yellow Ford backhoe. There was plenty of fun on the farm too; we would play volleyball on Wednesday night under a lit court in our front yard, Have big Independence day and Halloween parties, and play pump-pump goose late into the night. I think the best memories of the farm are the one’s which the whole family was involved in.

Sam: Walking out the summer kitchen into the boot room and up the brick path next to the garage will always be with me. I used that path as a starting point for many explorations, excursions, and experiences. Every day I learned something new like collecting eggs or milking goats and cows, fire starting, trail and fort making and much more. My brother Dave and I often played together, and I remember walking with him through the woods all the way to our elementary school only crossing the LIRR tracks. We felt like GI Joe!Although hurricane Gloria was the biggest storm we've had in the past 30 years, my most memorable storm was a huge early morning thunderstorm that had the whole family in Mom and Dad’s bed. Suddenly 'CRACK' the thunder and the brilliant light arrived at the same time, just as Dad was explaining how it worked. It made me jump two feet off the bed, and the lightning actually shot through the house!

My love for cars began when one of 'the volleyballers', Gerry, began bringing exotic imports to the farm. Matt Jacobs and the firework show he would put together every Fourth of July gave me inspiration. Parties on the farm feel different than what I've seen at any other party, everyone seems like one big family. I was often the little brother or son the revelers never had. The Jenkins clan especially had a big part in who I am today as well as the many teamies who visited. I’d hang out and listen to what they had to say, absorbing all of it and still use those collective memories one way or another.

Being the youngest of four I got to watch others make mistakes then learn not to make those mistakes myself. I feel that gave me an advantage my friends without older siblings didn’t have. I knew when trouble was about to hit and when to get out of the way.

Recently I took the brick path and passed walking sticks leaning on the garage, (I wouldn't go into the woods without one either), letting me know that new generations are using the paths to forge their own future. When asked “ what was it like growing up on the farm”, I reply, “I wouldn’t change it for the world”.