gravel hill farm

The days of summer are finally over. Fall has descended its chilly nights and short days upon our family's Victorian farm. This morning as I woke, beautiful frost-covered fields were a nice reminder that Christmas is only 48 days away. Straightshot, the quarter Clydesdale that lives next door, was nibbling his way around the fence posts where higher-growing grass had not frozen.

I cut an older apple sitting on the counter, slipped my duck boots on and summoned our sheltie Buddy to accompany me outside. I climbed over the fence in the furthest field making my way toward Straightshot and his companion donkey, Polly. The barn cats, confused about not yet having received their morning meal, followed us curiously toward the horses.

Buddy often disappears for half-an-hour now and again to snoop around at Mary Ellen's farm. Several years ago she and her husband lived at Gravel Hill. It grew too expensive of a property for them, so they divided the land and turned the barn-keeper's house into their own. She has a Rottweiler named Banjo who Buddy likes to visit.

Hallsboro is a simple kind of life. There are only a few of the original families left around these parts and they live back in the woods, never making a sound. It is a good place with a slow culture. At 7:30 on a frosty Thursday morning, the city of Richmond seems so far away and the rest of the world is nothing but a dream.