The Life of a House
At the top of a hill in a small rural town on the coast of Maine stands a 200-year-old farmhouse, speaking an almost audible sound of disrepair. For 75 years my grandparents, Richard Lloyd and Maida Caroline Cunningham, were subsistence farmers here, and they raised 7 children. The immeasurable passion I hold for the landscape is influenced by my childhood memories of running through rows of potatoes, picking blueberries, and eating cucumbers straight from the vine. An old farm like this comes with its own narratives—revealing that every landscape has a story to tell, and the natural brilliance of any place can be found and celebrated.
In 2005, I purchased this property from my grandmother in an effort to prevent the land from being subdivided, and with hopes to one day restore the house as a year-round retreat. Over ten acres of native grasses, aster, milkweed, and goldenrod blanket the ground and loosely merge with juvenile stands of white pine, spruce, poplar, birch, maple, and black cherry. The young trees frame a spectacular view of Jacob Buck Mountain, and elderly apple trees gracefully mark the edge where meadow meets woodland. A natural spring bubbles ice cold water from deep below the ground year round.
Yesterday, my grandmother passed away at the age of 89. For many years, she was a devoted homemaker and caregiver. She and my grandfather worked tirelessly to raise extensive vegetable gardens, and she was a master at preserving foods. Sharing was important to Richard and Maida, and they always spread the bounty among family, friends, and the community. She was an excellent and resourceful cook, and nobody ever left her kitchen hungry. Her generous heart was filled with a special love for children, and she never missed an opportunity to indulge her grandchildren.
As I reflect on this rainy evening before hurricane Sandy unleashes her power across the region, I take comfort thinking about how owning the family farm has proven to be one of the most rewarding experiences of my adult life. Now that my grandmother is gone, the house and the land have even greater meaning to me. Over the past 34 years I have watched this landscape transform through multiple stages of succession and reforestation as native plant colonies have practically erased an entire generation’s worth of work. In many ways, the only pieces of the original farm that can be seen are found in old family photos I have collected that show how things were in the old days. I often think about how difficult it must have been for my grandmother to watch the land that she and her husband worked so hard to build a life upon transform from a bustling and productive farm, to a quiet and seemingly forgotten woodland. It makes me think of how short our lives are, and how incredibly resilient mother nature is.
So many people have fond memories of my grandmother—she was an affectionate wife, mother, grandmother, and friend. Her spirit was genuine, and her soul was gentle. My grandparents taught me to respect and appreciate the land, and to observe and appreciate natural cycles and weather patterns. I work hard to let the landscapes I create tell a story about their context, the people who occupy them, and the natural systems they are part of. I will miss my grandmother with all my heart, and I am so grateful to have had two such amazing people in my life to teach me how to listen to the land. I’m sharing these photos with you all because for me, the life of a house extends well beyond the confines of walls, and the true meaning of a place comes from the landscape.
