Our House in the Cornfield
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Life on Aspinook
(First published in The Blue Nib Journal. Re-printed with permission.) For four years, I lived in a little white Cape Cod perched atop a bluff above Johnson’s Cove on Aspinook Pond, a small body of water that spilled out of the Quinnebaug River. You can locate the exact site on any good map of Connecticut. I had joined VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America), a branch of the Peace Corps. I’d rented the house with John and Sheila, two other VISTA volunteers. I worked with troubled teens, wards of the state who had been committed to a psychiatric hospital. Most of my 17-year-old patients had behavioral not mental health problems and were warehoused at the facility as they waited to turn 18, at which time the state would deposit them on the curb. My job was to “de-institutionalize” them before that sad day. Despite my optimism, passion and hard work, no one became de-institutionalized and no one was adequately prepared for emancipation day. John and Sheila worked at a legal aid office as an attorney and paralegal, respectively, advocating for clients with benefit and housing issues. All three of us staggered home at the end of the day, exhausted from our emotionally draining jobs.The Arpins, a French-Canadian family, had owned the fruit and vegetable farm before we moved there. To get to the property, you’d have to drive through Jewett City, head down route 12 for a while, then turn onto a steep gravel road. On either side of the narrow lane stood a ten-acre cornfield. A careless farmer rented the field. Possibly, he was drunk as he sowed the seed. Raggedy stalks leaned against each other in chaotic rows. He rarely remembered to gather his harvest. The only time the fields looked impressive was the end of the summer when the dense green wall of stalks and tassels obscured the random rows. In August, we’d pick the ears and shuck them as we ran toward the house. Then, we’d plunge the corn into boiling water for exactly six minutes. My mouth still waters at the thought of their sweet deliciousness.A quarter mile down the road sat the house, dwarfed by the huge oak and maple trees growing alongside it. In the spring, the grassy field and the steep hillside behind were awash in color: first the crocuses, then narcissus and daffodils. Later, several rows of peonies bloomed. Too bad we never remembered soon enough that peonies needed to be supported. The first stiff breeze toppled them, scattering blossoms, a crazy quilt of color. If you walked south from the house along the ridge above the water, you’d come across a tangle of raspberry canes. Each fall, we’d tried to prune the dead cane, but never got far, our interest waning as the thorny branches shredded our wrists and hands. Beyond the raspberries stood huge blueberry bushes, at least fifty plants, all taller than I. Birds stole most of the raspberries, but the blueberry bushes stayed loaded with fat berries. We made pies, jellies, jams, cobbler, poured them on our Cheerios, once threw them in salad (yuck). When I was unemployed after my VISTA stint, I sold them from a folding table set up alongside Route 12. Adjacent to the blueberry patch, we grew a vegetable garden. After we tilled a large rectangular area, we planted tomatoes, peppers, carrots, lettuce, green onions, beets, radishes, and marigolds. Hoping to keep insects away, we sprayed the plants with a castile soap/hot pepper mixture. The bugs did not depart, but the pepper spray burned our eyes and made our fingers red. To keep the furry pests out, we fenced off the area with posts and chicken wire. Chicken wire did not block entry to the local groundhog, nor to a family of star-faced moles. We never figured out how to combat the moles.We wanted that groundhog dead, but we were squeamish about doing it ourselves. So, we asked for help from our friend, Michael,
