Sylvia Jorrin's July 2005 Farm Story

The Inheritance

Fly Flanagan has been enjoying a little more freedom of late. In small increments. I let him out with me each day for lessons, of course. It is imperative that he works properly for me on this farm. I am so without help. This young dog is the hope of my future. And reminds me daily of my ignorance about dogs. My only rule is one of absolute consistency. Down means down. No matter what I am doing, if Fly doesn't drop on command, I bring him to the spot where he was to stay and put him there. Oh, we both mix up the "sit," and "down" commands at times. But that is minor. We're working on whispering of late. I've been lowering my voice when instructing him. "Let's go," I whisper, and young Fly Flanagan races to the kitchen door, looks at me, I nod, he then runs through the living room and stands at the open door looking back at me. I then say, "that will do, green gate", and off he races to the green gate, stopping in front of it. I'm letting him run more, dropping him or calling him to me, erratically. I want him to think obeying me is the fun part of being outside. He has chosen to sit at my feet, on my feet actually, as I write in my outdoor living room. It is cool here this very hot morning. The flies buzz. He has discovered the pleasure of catching them on the wing, as does my dog Samantha. It is the sweet time. I wish however, in a way I didn't see everything in such detail. The stone floor of this lovely room needs sweeping. Some lumber in a corner needs to be moved. A table needs to be repositioned. And should I let the burdock remain growing between the stones paving the floor? The dead branches on my favorite willow tree seen through the stone framed windows distract me. There were three bedrooms for servants in this house I try to remind myself. And I am all of them.

The mail has been particularly delightful this week. All kinds of lovely things have arrived. This morning, a letter came, beautiful type in the upper left hand corner. It was from an attorney. My cousin Bernie. Inside was a brief note and a money order. My inheritance from my Uncle Percy. One hundred and thirty-one dollars. One eighth of his estate. I was enchanted. My first thought was to put it away to help pay for my next visit to my daughter in California. That thought was rejected immediately. My Uncle Percy always referred to himself as a "farm boy." "You can take the boy out of the farm but you can't take the farm out of the boy," he'd say to me. "Oh, I wish I could come and help you!" Therefore, my inheritance must go toward helping me. And helping me on the farm. I thought of buying some chickens but I've never made a profit selling eggs. Whatever I invested the money in, I'd want to be reminded of my Uncle Percy when I saw it, and would want it to enhance my farm, and help me feel his presence. I knew he was proud of me for farming.

Three or four years ago I planted six black currant bushes. They did very well despite my benign neglect. Black currant liquor. Black currant syrup. Black currant lozenges. Black currants in half pint baskets. Last year I planted ten more bushes. I put them in late. But put them in I did. Nine made it. Nicely. I surrounded them with doughnuts of mulch, straw mixed with sheep manure. The doughnuts became a slow release fertilizer, and kept in the moisture as well. There are no really prominent shoots as yet but the leaves are huge, green and lush. The money I put aside to buy ten more, ten a year had been my plan, disappeared into the bellies of the sheep. As has most money here of late. It was a necessary disappointment, but disappointed I was. The first thought after Plymouth Rock chicks were of currants. Black currants. I rushed to the phone. Called my source. Asked if they had any currants left. They had a few. The kind I wanted. Eighteen would come to the price I wanted to pay were I to include the shipping costs and a book about how best to raise them. "How much money do I send you," I asked. She quoted me a price for less. " They're on sale," she said. "Please give me one hundred thirty one dollars worth. My Uncle Percy just left me one hundred thirty one dollars. I want to spend it on currants." "Okay. I'll send you twenty-seven bushes," she replied. That will do it. So the investment has already increased fifty-five percent. Thank you, Uncle Percy. I'll think of you every day as I shall see that plantation everyday for always. The leaves are to make a tea and the fruits shall make me money and jam and a cordial for the winter. It'll buy a nice little book as my share of the investment in which to write down costs, planting and propagation information, and keep a careful record of the profits. Starting with the fifty-five dollar profit that this day brought. My investment shall also include paying for some help with digging the 27 holes. And so, my Uncle Percy and I shall be working the farm together. Not the dairy farm he loved that he ran with my grandfather, but a black currant plantation accompanying my sheep and goat farm. What could be nicer!

For many years, in the beginning of my life here, I'd see my father's face smiling down at me, as I sawed down trees by a wall, or climbed one for the last apples of the year. The starburst crinkled eyes of my grandfather glowed at me in my mind's eye as I began my life with livestock. Since May I've seen Ernest here, occasionally, giving me a word or two of reprimand, that he rarely did when he was alive. But always in support and kindness. And now there is Uncle Percy, "Shoah," he'd say. "I wish I could come and help you, Sylvia." He wasn't one to easily understand the complicated wild creature that I was as a child and then as a grown-up, but after I started farming, there was no mistaking the pride in his voice, nor the longing he had for the lost farm on Society Road in Niantic, Connecticut, he thought he had to give up. Oh thank you, thank you, Uncle Percy. You are in a place where understanding reigns, and I can be your loving niece and laughter and joy can fill my heart and mind whenever I think of you. You're now farming with me.

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