There is also a place I have known since I was first able to make memories. We called it the “farm.” It sits outside of Richfield Springs, NY, which in turn sits on U. S. Rte. 20. Called Western Avenue in Albany where I once owned a house that was backed by it, Rte. 20 was the first road I knew by number and name. My grandfather called it the “Cherry Valley Turnpike” and declared it to be “scenic.” What a gift of “roots.”
My dad was born and raised in East Herkimer, a distinct neighborhood on a rise above Herkimer itself and not to be confused with Herkimer. As a boy, he worked on what he referred to as “Uncle Charlie’s farm.” This property came into dad’s family in 1867, shortly after the Civil War. My nephew treasures what Dan and I grew up calling “the Civil War chest,” because it was found buried on the property some time after the war, filled with money. Perhaps New Yorkers were more afraid of a southern invasion or victory than we have been led to believe.
Each time we came to upstate New York to visit my grandfather, we would visit the “farm.” Roughly 100 acres of woods, the “farm” didn’t look anything like a farm to us. Still my brother and I could always find the foundation of the barn that had once been there, and, across the road, of the house as well. We would root around in both for shards of former lives. We would explore the old apple orchard in the northwest corner or climb down the ravine to the creek that ran along part of the western boundary line or follow the old stone fence that marked the southern boundary.
Dad used to say that the first crop to come up on the “farm” in the spring was stones. Children were given the job of pilling the stones on a low sled called the “stone boat,” guiding the patient horse to an open edge, and unloading the rocks to make a boundary fence.
Situated on a hillside, with no access to the main road and in a landscape filled with ravines, the “farm” seemed to us an unlikely place for crops other than rocks. As children we gathered flint stones for starting fires; as an adult, I gathered large flat stones to make paths in my garden.
In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, however, hops held out the hope of economic recovery for impoverished farms like the one in our family. Hops are relatively easy to propagate and grow and can also be harvested relatively easily, allowing for a mixed crew that could include women and children. I have a picture of dad’s uncle Charlie on a horse, in the middle of a row of hops.
The boom didn’t last, and the farm passed on first to uncle Charlie’s sister, Helen, then to my grandfather’s second wife, then to my grandfather, and finally to my father. Slowly, it turned into forest. When I decided to go east to college, my dad decided to reclaim the “farm” for reforestation. Each time he and my mom visited me in Pennsylvania, they would continue on to upstate New York and Richfield Springs.
Under the guidance of a New York state forester, they selected a relatively flat, accessible, unforested part of the “farm.” They girdled and poisoned the invasive and obnoxious hawthorns that made the area unforested. Hawthorns come up early and come up fast, first sticking a thorned twig out of the ground, then rapidly shooting up trunk and branches. They get a head start, grow unimpeded – who wants to eat a thorn? — and quickly shade out other trees. In this weird area of dead and dying trees, reminiscent of something out of Grimm’s fairy tales, my mom and dad planted tiny white spruces, gotten cheap from the New York State Department of Conservation. These relatively fast-growing trees would, theoretically, compete with the surviving hawthorns and, once mature, could be harvested for pulp.
I helped. My brother helped. Our partners helped. My cousin helped. Her children helped. My grandfather helped. He cleared a space above the ravine, built a fireplace and some log benches, and declared it our café. He cleared a path to the part of the property that overlooked Lake Canadarago. From this spot you can see the island just off the eastern shore of the lake and the fields on the opposite western shore. In his 90’s, concerned about boundaries, my grandfather strung barbed wire around three fourths of the property.
Of course, the reforestation project didn’t work. Of course, the hawthorns won and the spruces lost. When dad turned over the property to my brother and me, we began selective timbering of the “farm.” To our surprise, the “farm,” when called a “forest,” turned out to be quite valuable and responsible timbering turned out to be quite good for a “forest.”
But just like mom and dad before us, and grandpa before them, my brother and I, as we got older, began to feel responsible for ensuring appropriate succession of the “farm.” None of our children lived in upstate New York and none felt able to take on the responsibility of managing our forest well or of preserving the legacy it represented.
Anxious to keep it out of the hands of developers, I said, “Let’s give it to the Otsego Land Trust.” Anxious to fund his grandchildren’s education, Dan said, “Let’s sell it.” I gave my share to the Land Trust which made it possible for them to buy Dan’s share. Kate and Meg will get educated and the “farm” will be preserved.
It now has a fine and proper name. It is called The Fetterley Forest and has been designated “a working forest in memory of Ray and Mary Fetterley.” At the dedication when the sign was unveiled, neither Dan nor I were quite certain what work the forest would be doing but we were happy that it would be cared for and preserved.
Recently we visited our family forest. We encountered a woman hiking one of the trails, who thanked us on behalf of the many area residents who regularly use the forest. We read the notebook at the welcoming kiosk and found people had come to our former “farm” from all over the world. We walked the wide and well-kept trail to the overlook and sat for a long time admiring the familiar view. We listened to the birds. We got lost on the way home and it didn’t matter. The forest was working.
