Seven Acres

by Lynn Dee Galey 

As is common with old New England houses, she sat close to the narrow, winding road. Yet most people likely never noticed her hidden behind the thick, overgrown cloak of vines, brush and trees.

Modest in size with white clapboards and slate shingled roof, the windows, surprisingly intact, she showed only darkness inside. A small red barn was tucked behind, another hint that at one time this was part of a homestead.

Musty-scented plat maps pulled from the wide shelves at the town clerk's office showed that only seven acres remained with the house. In an area where new residents were rare, everyone seemed to know only that the house belonged to someone who lived in New York City. There had been no known visitors in decades.

Tumble-down, moss covered stone walls marked the boundaries of the seven acres as they did most Vermont properties.  Such walls were demarcations, not built to keep people out. Any acreage surrounded with shiny new “No Trespassing” signs usually announced that an outsider had “purchased tradition” but did not want to share it.

Countless times our bird hunts brought us across the back of those seven acres just to the north of our farm. The land rose up in a staggered manner across ledges and brush, from the old house to the wall at the top and back of the property. From the wall, part of the Adirondack mountain range could be seen, far across the valleys below, into the next state. The setter and I would stop and breathe deeply as we took in the view that was as old as the rounded mountains but that never grew old to us.

The random wild apple trees, gnarled junipers, tangles of grapevines and even token patches of alders were classic Vermont grouse habitat.  Birds used the northeast corner as their exit, their gliding away signaling that the day's lessons were done. Being adjacent to our farm these birds shared home covey protection and only rarely was a shot fired.

Their role was teacher to several generations of my setters as they schooled the youngsters and did their best to humble the adults. So rarely did they play a predictable game that when almost 6-month-old Ditto went on point 10 yards from an apple tree I knew that there would not be a bird there. Too easy.

But the young pup’s serious demeanor deserved the pretense of respect so I casually walked in, gun broken over my arm. And yes, of course a grouse came bursting up from the ground presenting a clear view as it banked over that little tri-color setter and headed for the corner exit. On such days, gunners joined puppies in the lessons but it was the pup at the head of the class.

 (Foster)

Not two weeks earlier the Seven Acres had first shown unusual favoritism to this particular pup. Ditto was uphill merrily working some brushy cover and a woodcock came flying in from below and dropped down not 40 yards from me. I raised my eyes to the blue skies and gave thanks for this gift that was better than any with ribbons and bows. I was silent audience to the pup eventually working over in that direction; the breeder in me wanted to whoop with pleasure as Ditto crossed that scent and froze into a point worthy of the camera that I did not have with me.

A thousand miles and several years now separate me from my farm and those seven acres, but the memories remain so near. Most of the setters who crossed those walls as we roamed are but memories themselves. Like so many lost coverts, no one walks through the farm or the vine covered house and its seven acres any more.  But I am certain that the birds are still there, and if I close my eyes I am right there with them.

Foster, W. H. (1983). New England Grouse Shooting. In New England Grouse Shooting. Oshkosh, WI: Willow Creek Press.