In 1958, two notable events happened. My brother Bob was born in August and three months later we moved down to the big house on Church Road. That farm is where all of my memories crystallize, both the good and the bad.

Part of the house had been built in the 1700’s with a larger add-on in the 1800’s. There was a crumbling stone barn, a carriage house and a spring house, all set amid tangled woods and open fields. History aside, I just knew it was the neatest house I’d ever seen.

The 18th century kitchen had a huge walk-in fireplace where we kept our stove and these creepy, curvy back stairs to the second floor leading to a dusty old attic we all thought was haunted. You could hear strange creaking and groaning sounds up there at night. That attic would surely have been the servants’ quarters after the new wing was built—no telling what stories might have happened there. I only know I was terrified to go higher than halfway up the stairs, and then only in broad daylight, peeking through the slat railings at the spooky old rocking horse and furniture and boxes stored up there. Even on a dare I wouldn’t go farther.

But the very best thing about that old house was that it had indoor plumbing. Alas! Now we had a bathroom with a flush toilet and a claw-footed bathtub, and real running hot water. As young as I was, even I thought we were moving towards better times.

Ours wasn’t a working farm, but we raised chickens on and off. The eggs got collected each morning, and once every so often, we’d have a chicken killing. The whole family would participate. There was an old walnut tree stump in the side yard where my dad would lay the chickens down and then chop their heads off with an axe. Dave, George and Jim would help hold the chickens down and collect their heads afterwards. Then it was up to me and my brother Bob to chase down the headless carcasses, catch them and deliver them to Carol or Evelyn for dipping and plucking in a bucket of scalding hot water. After the chickens were dressed by my mother, they’d go into the freezer, turning up sporadically for Sunday dinner, notoriously covered with pin feathers we’d failed to pluck.