Peter

July 20, 2018

I haven’t written a post in quite awhile, and I think it’s because I was working on this one in my heart. It was eight years ago today that we tucked my brother into the soil of his farm with his family gathered round and Mount Israel standing watch. Now is the time to pay tribute to the man who built our little house. Peter.

Peter took the job because he could walk to the worksite on a path through the woods, and he loved that we wanted to live right there by the farm. We wanted a view and were willing to build a long, steep driveway to access a flat spot with potential for a mountain vista. Peter scrambled up a tree to see what was out there, and when the leaves came down in the fall we all saw what he had seen — the rock-domed Chocorua. I was very excited.

Most of the lumber for our house was felled on our property and pulled from the woods with a team of draft horses — Dan and Ned. Peter milled the wood with a Ross Bandmill. Here is a photo — that’s not Peter operating the mill, but it gives you an idea. (Peter’s mill is tucked into the woods behind my mother’s house, slowly succumbing to the elements. Steve uses a bigger one for his milling. Peter would approve.)

Ours was the third house Peter built, after his own farmhouse and our parents’ retirement house. And it was a community effort. Diane was there every step of the way, of course, and Peter called in some wonderful Sandwich builders and craftsmen to help with different projects. For example, Peter couldn’t build the chimney, made with field stones from our land, but Steve Olafsen could.

Our mother helped wherever she could, including bringing afternoon tea to the worksite. (Being the pragmatist that she is, she brought up mugs, not china cups and saucers, but the tea was properly brewed, I assure you.)  Our brother-in-law Ernie painted the entire interior for us. That was a labor of love, too.

The house was built over the course of three years, winter being prime time for logging. (Those are Booty girls behind the team in the photo.)

Mom sent us photos as the work progressed, because we were living in Arizona at the time. (If you’d like to see photos of the finished house, there are some on the page called “Our Little House.”)

Here are a couple photos of Peter at work:

Peter died just about three weeks after his fifty-fifth birthday. It was cancer, Sarcoma to name it, and it just wouldn’t quit. He wanted so much to live, to be there as his grandson Parker grew. When he’d had a lung removed along with an enormous tumor, he asked me, “Do you think I can still climb Rattlesnake?” Heartbreaking doesn’t begin to describe it.

Peter was brave facing the unknown, and when he said goodbye to me he told me that he’d wait for me. I knew he meant on the other side. I told him I’d come.

Peter died in the early morning hours of July 20th. We bathed his body and dressed him in his favorite LL Bean garden shirt — the breathable kind. It was blue. Mom observed that LL Bean should be very proud. Mom was happy to sit next to Peter’s body for a few hours on her porch. He was lying in the box that Stephen had made from a tree that had blown over on the farm. (I think I’m remembering that right.) Dad didn’t come downstairs from his bedroom. It was too hard for him.

We tucked Peter in at about two o’clock that afternoon. He had chosen the spot on the margin of the big garden, next to the woods, with a glorious view of Mount Israel. Parker had put a stuffy into the box with Peter, and he dropped a strawberry into the hole. A young friend, Will, I think, brought a small rock from the top of Mount Israel that he’d collected that morning. For Peter.

The turned earth that covered Peter was strewn with straw, and sheep made themselves comfortable there. Just the way he’d want it. Dad’s there now too, along with Diane’s dad and her grandma. One of Peter’s grandchildren is also next to him. Hannah’s wee Owen Peter. We’ll go over there today. We’ll cry, but we’ll also fill ourselves up with our memories of him, knowing that somehow he’s still here.

If love is all that matters, really matters, then we’re okay. We’re filled to overflowing. Thank you for our little house in the big woods, Peter. We miss you.