Chick-a-biddy Cottage is the latest addition to our farm. It is the childhood and adult home of Ida Dye Doyle, who grew up on our ridge and returned there later on in her colorful life. She died, sadly, on January 4, 2010, a few months shy of 89, and was a good friend and neighbor. As her obituary states:
She was born on her parents, Walter and Bannie Dye, farm on May 23, 1921 and returned back here in the 1970s. Ida was widely traveled but loved the home place best, perhaps because she intimately knew every tree, stone, spring, and field.The inner part of the house was once her family cabin and, in recent years, her daughter owned it and added onto it at both ends. Now it looks like a big brown bungalow.
We have started renovating it, quite affordably and without too much fanfare (a fresh coat of paint in your favorite colors is a marvelous thing!) from the inside out and I will blog occasionally about various aspects of it, complete with new pantries.
Right now the cottage is 'farm central' for me: I can look out the windows, on all sides of the cottage, and see what's what. This is important when you are a farmwife: you need to know what's going on and who's doing what. You need to be able to holler when dinner's ready without picking up a phone. The house is not big enough for our brood but we intend to camp out in it, especially in the summer months when we're across the street all the time. It is also a guest house.
Most importantly, it is now my little cottage. I've adopted it and taken over. I've taken Virginia Woolf's advice to the max: forget the room, I now have a house of my own. My husband has his shop, and a hay shed, and an equipment shed, and a cattle sorting shed. I have a cottage. And I'm blessed. Here I will be working on most of my writing and will also be canning and cooking large meals in the summer months. And yes, I had to add a pantry. 2011 is the year that I will be settling in at last to our farm world.
I should also explain the cottage name. As you may know from my other blog, In the Pantry, I have real live chickens now. For years I've been collecting chicken ephemera, for lack of a better term, and, among other reasons, well, I rather need a place to put it all. A 'chickabiddy' (also spelled 'chick-a-biddy') is an affectionate term for a young child, like what the French call their babies, "mon petit choux" (my little cabbage). As well as chickens, I'm also getting to that 'biddy' stage––not quite yet, but there are days. Well, you get the idea.
One day, I expect, whether we build that elusive dream farmhouse across the way or not, it will become, what the Amish and Mennonites call, a 'doty house' ('doty' is grandparent in Pennsylvania Dutch dialect). I'm not being entirely selfish. I will share. My husband and I will likely live there as old codgers on the farm at which time I will convert the entire upstairs into a giant bunkroom for grandchildren.
I'd like to think that Ida would approve of what we've been doing. The ridge has not been quite the same without her here.
January 4, 2011––Chick-a-Biddy Cottage