Old and New
It was too nice a morning to want to spend time on any of the farm's endless projects, so while hubby climbed on the big farm tractor to mow the front field, I climbed on my bike for a quick tour down the paved road. Destination was a big development 8 miles away, simply to see the finished residences and take stock of the newest houses being built.
Being Sunday the paved road was quieter than on a weekday, allowing me to cruise at speed in the center of my lane for the most part enjoying the turbo part of my Vado's name.
By the time I reached the development I was ready to throttle down and just pedal at a slow recreational speed, enjoying the welcoming smiles and friendly waves hello of the residents, many of whom were out on their own bikes, multiple kids on colorful kiddie bikes in a procession either before or aft the slow cruisers of the parents. It was pretty obvious that the "pandemic purchases" of bikes were still being put to good use, especially on the clean, gentle, and safe development roads. There were parents on bikes with kiddie trailers attached, one or two parents on foot following close behind their tiny charges on tiny kiddie bikes or trikes, and two residents at two different houses both in the process of suiting up in motorcycling gear while their powerful machines stood quietly alongside waiting for the moment when they would rumble with a muted roar down the driveways and onto the main road where the engines would open to a deafening roar that the entire countryside would hear.
In the newest section of the development the noise took on the sounds of multiple hammers of the roofing crews production line of men on multiple houses in a row, all nailing on shingles, while closer to the ground carpenters guided their powerful electric saws into producing perfectly fitted cuts of wood for the unfinished house interiors. It seemed like Sunday was just like any other day of the week. Busy.
It was noisy in the new building section, but the peace and quiet returned in the older finished section with only a minor interruption here and there of a resident powerwashing her outdoor furniture, some kids playing ball with the excited family dog, and one youngster having a tantrum meltdown on the side of the road because he didn't want to ride his bike anymore. The poor dad, whose bike was already commandeered by a kiddie trailer with two youngsters peeking out the front screen at the sight of their elder brother in a 5 year old's consumptive rage, and thus unable to do anything except try to console and gently encourage his screaming tearful son (whose name was Peter) to get back on his bike and continue the ride, preferably back home where mom was probably happily relaxing in the peace and quiet thanks to the kids being off with good old dad for a "fun bike ride".
Life in the suburbs.
On the way back home I pulled up into an old driveway leading to an abandoned 1820s house.
I had watched over the years as the house, once lived in by the farmer who owned extensive land on both sides of the road for his dairy, had been sold to an owner who lived elsewhere, leaving the house and barn to slowly wither away under the onslaught of a relentless army of vines and undergrowth. There was evidence that the old lawns had been mowed at least once recently, but beyond that the property had been left to fend for itself.
Peeking in the old house's windows revealed nothing but an empty interior carpeted with old but clean wall-to-wall in a boring beige palette, and one very old wall sconce still attached by an equally old electric cord to a nearby outlet of a vintage that hasn't been in fashion since the 1940s. I stepped back and studied the beautiful structure of the 200 year old building, the elegant facade tragically marred by a conglamoration of poorly designed and badly mismatched additions built over the centuries in the guise of multiple enclosed porches and auxiliary rooms to expand the square footage. The old chimneys were still standing strong, but the house itself was on life support in desperate need of some tender loving care before it would be too far gone to save. A small occupied chicken coop and fenced chicken yard around to the side of the house, plus a freshly mowed piece of the yard, promised that someone somewhere was at least keeping a daily watchful eye on the old place.
The old fields that once held dairy and later beef cattle were now owned and cultivated as a sustainable volunteer based non profit food bank. Where herds of cattle once grazed, now acres of vegetables grew in carefully choreographed lines. Tomatoes seemed to be the overwhelming favorite. I was too far away to see what other delectables were planted.
By now I'd already spent most of my two hour's planned ride, and knew that hubby would soon be finished mowing the front field. Time to get a move on and get back home before the grass I needed to mow got any higher. Plus the corn was already sprouting and I needed to get the fencing up before the deer discovered the newest addition to the gardens and decided to add the tender sprouts to their dinner menu. So much to do before morning eased into afternoon, and yet still 8 miles left between me and my chores.
There is a good reason for the Turbo button on an ebike!
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