The Walden Experience

Daddy-o jams out on his birthday

"How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live." - Henry David Thoreau

And here I am at Cherrymont Farm in central Pennsylvania, which is probably as close as this city girl will voluntarily get to the Walden Pond experience.

Cherrymont is run by Patrick, AKA Daddy-o, an old jazz aficionado with a gruff voice and a big heart. He dresses like an old Irishman in a wool sports jacket and sweater, his white hair reaching out from beneath a plaid newsboy cap. Daddy-o, like his ex-wife Jane in New Orleans, acts as a surrogate parent to many of the “degenerati” artists that regularly stop through for a few days, weeks or months. We celebrated his 69^th birthday just the other night, and I'm amazed at what he accomplishes around here at his age. Cherrymont is no longer a working farm but there are still chickens and goats and plenty to be done.

Chopper the Dog in front of his home.

Daddy-o and Miss Jane purchased Cherrymont in 1980 and turned it into a flower farm for a spell, “selling perennials wholesale to the trade,” but it was a working farm for a very long time before that. The original part of the main house at Cherrymont may have been built as early as 1715. The huge property was slowly parceled off over the centuries, eventually bisected by the Pennsylvania Turnpike in the 1940s and then reduced to it's current size of 50 acres. We're deep in the heart of Amish country, and many of the local stores are staffed by the wives and daughters of the Mennonite population.

There's certainly a timeless feel to the lifestyle here. We're currently conserving gas until it gets refilled later this week, which means no cooking on the gas range and no baths. This morning I “showered” in the tub with a large copper kettle that had been warmed on the wood-burning stove that is the main source of heat for the house. It was charming in a novel, “wow, people used to live like this,” preparation for the apocalypse sort of way.

The Shack Shack, my new digs.

Daddy-o and Miss Jane have been collecting cabins since they bought the place, and the acreage nearest the house is dotted with little shacks, a barn and a tiny church that is used as a library. I've been staying in Hydrangea House, the nicest cabin on the property, also heated by wood-burning stove. It's a cozy little setup, with a loft for the bed, large windows, and a real porthole at the peak of the roof. I'm just shack-sitting though, and today the usual resident of Hydrangea will be back, so Daddy-o and I are going to go chase the squirrels out of what's lovingly referred to as the “Shack Shack” further up the hill. The Shack Shack used to house a ski-lift motor at Fairmont Park in Philadelphia up until the 70s. It's nine square feet, and will be my new home for the next month, or until I finish writing my novel. With any luck we'll be installing a pot-bellied stove in there before I move in. I haven't been through a real winter – never mind a real winter without central heating – for almost eight years now. I'm hoping the anticipation of the cold is worse than the reality to my thin Cajun blood.