|Ransom Farm, Riverton, CT|
There is something really special about farms. Yes, they provide various products that we all need to survive, but there's something more. They hold personalities, knowledge, and histories. I look out the window into my meadow and I see hundreds of years and many generations of farmers out there. I see long-gone herds of dairy cattle grazing (in the days before "pasture-fed" was a buzz-word), straight rows of perfect Butter-and-Sugar sweet corn, and mazes of blueberry bushes with clusters of bright, purplish-blue fruit. I also see the memories of those who used to work this land: my grandpa on his 1950's, red Massey-Harris tractor cutting hay on a hot summer day, my grandma kneading dough in the kitchen for her locally-famous bread bakery, and my Dad collecting sap from maple trees to make maple syrup. I can even imagine the generations of people who came before them.
These 80 acres have been in my family for 233 years, spanning four centuries. The original deed, dated 1780, granted the parcel of land to my ancestor, Pelatiah Ransom, by the King of England. Pelatiah had been a Minute Man soldier in the Revolutionary War and, upon concluding his military service, bought this plot. At that time, the northwest corner of Connecticut was the edge of the colonial wilderness. A few houses and roads existed in the area, as well as a Native American settlement, but Pelatiah was really one of the first proprietors of the village. He built a small log cabin (from which the foundation, luckily, still exists today) before he started working on building a permanent farmhouse and clearing the land for a farm. Pelatiah and his wife, Sarah, went on to open one of the first taverns in the area, owned a stagecoach that ran on the old Hartford-Albany turnpike, built a bridge that spanned the Farmington River, and, of course, ran a successful farm in the wake of a new republic.
Two hundred years later, my girls play on the same floors that were hand-hewn, by their ancestor, from now-extinct American Chestnut that grew on this very same land. My sheep spend the days blissfully grazing on the same native orchard grass that horses, cows, donkeys, and countless other animals have foraged on for decades. My husband collects fresh eggs, fills feed containers, and checks for frozen water troughs in our large English Bank-style barn and sturdy 1940's chicken coop. And this December, I lugged my first batch of canned preserves made in this house (an orange jam with real vanilla beans... it tastes like a Creamsicle!) into the field-stone cellar for storage, just like so many farm women before me.