Have I ever told you I live in a farmhouse? Not a hundred- year-old farmhouse, full of character and charm, like the one the Gaineses live in. But it was a genuine farmhouse, built in the 80s by an Alaskan colonist, who was passionate about farming. He had farms in Alaska and in Hawaii. He sold his vegetables at farmer’s markets. And they say when he couldn’t walk any longer, he went out on his hands and knees just to get his hands in the soil.
Around our property, the memories of a not so distant past lean against trunks of trees and hide in overgrowth, telling a tale of a time when farming didn’t depend as much on gasoline and engines, but hard work and brute strength. My husband looks at the antiquated farming equipment and can hear the sputter of the manual tools; seeding, plowing, planting making room for labor and harvest.
Our entryway is a tribute to that old farmer. What seems like a bit of a grand, arctic entryway is a virtual sunroom gazing at a 6,400 foot mountain. But for that old farmer, the windows weren’t built for elegance or charm; it was designed practically. My husband tells me his great-grandpa lined the windows with shelves and starts for all of his plants every spring.
And as much as I think of farming in a gloriously romantic sense, I have only proven I have a pink thumb. The one garden I planted, grew nothing but a pink fungus over the top. I kill plants, and grow pink fungus. Even local farmers are baffled by my talent. One of these days, I may get up the courage to try again.
In the meantime, I have a grand entryway that invites people in, windows spanning two stories lets the light flood the room. I’ve had fun styling it this fall and winter, however, I didn’t know what to do this spring. Then I got a text one day from my cousin, who lives in a real farmhouse, with all that character and charm, built back in the 30s. It’s as old of a farmhouse as you can get around here. And she asks if I want an old rickety farmhouse chair that needs some love. I tell her no at first. My style gravitates more towards French Country. But then I get to thinking about that entryway, and the old farmer, and how his old galvanized bucket, sitting on that old farmhouse chair with blooms of spring, could welcome in everyone who walks in the doors.
The chair begs a story, barely stable, and a seat worn through, it is full of character and charm. I wanted to preserve the memory and revitalize the wood rather than painting it. I applied Miss Mustard Seed’s Hemp Oil, and the wood drank it in, and the remaining parts of the leather seat drank it in, like water in parched ground. Like magic, the color deepened and now looks fresh and revitalized.
I have yet to do any repairs to the structure of the chair.
For now, it just sits with that old galvanized bucket of the colonist farmer; decked out with flowers, and paying tribute to the one who built the entryway for new life to begin every spring.
Thanks for stopping by,