The Old Spring

I grew up in my maternal grandparent's house. My parents lived with them until I was eight, and then they bought their own house about a mile away. I don't know why because I swear all we did was sleep there. Weekends were spent at the grandparent's place. After school, I rode my bike to my grandparent's house. When we cousins wanted to "camp out," it was in our grandparent's meadow. That's where the action was. 

Growing up, I didn't think it was odd that my grandparent's water came from a spring. I just know that a lot of family members would bring a jug and take some spring water home with them to make iced tea, my mother included. These days, heaven only knows what has leached into the water, and we don't drink it. There are houses above it now. Back then, there was only forest. 

The picture is the inside of the spring. My grandfather walled it up, dug out the bottom for a reservoir, and eventually installed a reinforced concrete roof. This is how the spring looks today. 

I'm very glad that the cousin who got the homeplace didn't fill in the spring. Pop's roof is still intact and the water still flows into the spring branch and down to the creek. We don't use it any longer, but it's there if my cousin wants to water his grass. 

I suppose it's rather unremarkable, but it's a memory from my youth. I thought I'd share.

The Lady of Holly Tree Manor/The Hideaway

Holly Tree Manor, The Hideaway, rural living, country lifestyle, KC Kendricks, grandparents, old ways, spring water, changing times, safe drinking water

How to measure a snowfall using a milk can

Two of my most prized possessions are the old metal milk cans that sit on the porch outside my sunroom office. They belonged to my grandparents and when Pop said he needed to get them "out of the way," I jumped. I brought them home, cleaned and scraped the rust off with a wire brush, and shot them with a couple of coats of Rustoleum spray paint. That was forty years ago now. 

They're different in that one is short and squatty and the other taller - more like antique lovers would expect to see in a milk can. They aren't placed with any great care. I move them around all the time but I always make sure one of them is out from under the eaves. For decades, when it snows, I open the door and stick a ruler down to see how much snow has fallen. 

The man of the manor used to scoff at this. He didn't believe the milk can could be accurate, but winter after winter my measurement has matched his, and I didn't need to put on boots to trudge outside to take mine. Yesterday, when the snow finally ceased falling, I measured a firm nine inches of snow. The man of the manor got the same number on the walk that leads to the patio on the other corner of the house.

The milk cans are more than a country porch decoration and occasional snow gauge. They are a daily visual reminder of my grandparents and because of that I will never part with them. They remind me of a sunlit fall day when my Pop settled his Orioles ballcap tighter on his head and said he'd better start the tractor and get them up the lane to my new house before I changed my mind. 

As if I would, Pop. 

The Lady of the Manor