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IF YOU'RE GOING
TO LIVE IN
THE COUNTRY
[Illustration: A RIVERSIDE HOME RECONSTRUCTED FROM THE RUINS OF AN OLD
MILL
_Photo by Samuel H. Gottscho_ _Robertson Ward, architect_]
IF YOU'RE GOING
TO LIVE IN
THE COUNTRY
BY THOMAS H. ORMSBEE
AND RICHMOND HUNTLEY
[Illustration]
DECORATIONS BY FRANK LIEBERMAN
[Illustration]
THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1937
BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review
to be printed in a magazine or newspaper.
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, N. Y.
To
CARROLL
and
THERESE
NICHOLS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No book that covers so many phases of human relationships could be
compiled without taking advice from those who are specialists. When we
have wanted to know facts, we have freely turned to others whose
detailed knowledge represented long experience. For this assistance we
are particularly indebted to: M. Shaler Allen, Bruce Millar, Mrs.
Herbert Q. Brown, and George S. Platts; also, to _House & Garden_, in
which parts of this book appeared serially; and to Miss Eleanor V.
Searing for many hours spent reading manuscript.
New Canaan, Conn.
April 1937
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION xi
CHAPTER
I. WHY LIVE IN THE COUNTRY 3
II. SELECTING THE LOCATION 19
III. SHOPPING FOR PROPERTY 35
IV. CALL IN AN ARCHITECT 57
V. BUILDING VERSUS REMODELING 73
VI. LOOKING AN OLD HOUSE IN THE MOUTH 91
VII. NEW SITES FOR OLD HOUSES 105
VIII. THE SMOKE GOES UP THE CHIMNEY 121
IX. THE QUESTION OF WATER SUPPLY 139
X. SEWAGE SAFETY 153
XI. DECORATIONS AND FURNISHINGS 165
XII. THE FACTORY PART OF THE HOUSE 179
XIII. PETS AND LIVESTOCK 191
XIV. TIGHTENING FOR WINTER 203
XV. KEEPING HOME FIRES IN THEIR PLACE 215
XVI. WHEN THINGS GO WRONG 227
XVII. WORKING WITH NATURE 243
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
A riverside home reconstructed from the ruins of an
old mill _Frontispiece_
_Robertson Ward, architect. Photo by Gottscho_
FACING PAGE
The Ogden house, Fairfield, Conn. Built before 1705,
it has been restored to preserve the original details 12
_Miss Mary Allis_
An old farmhouse in the rough 36
_Photo by John Runyon_
A really Early American interior. The great fireplace
of the Wayside Inn, Sudbury, Mass. 60
_Henry Ford_
Once half a house and a hen roost 76
_Photo by Whitney_
What can be done with a barn 76
_Robertson Ward, architect. Photo by Gottscho_
As they built a chimney in the 18th Century 118
_Photo by John Runyon_
A place for summer and week-ends 148
_Robertson Ward, architect. Photo by La Roche_
True 18th Century simplicity. Now the authors' dining room 170
_Photo by John Runyon_
Entirely new, but with all the charm of an old house 184
_Robertson Ward, architect. Photo by Gottscho_
Snow has dignity, but is the house snug and warm? 206
_Photo by Gottscho_
An imposing country home of classic dignity 220
_Robertson Ward, architect. Photo by Gottscho_
Skillful planting of trees, shrubs, and flowers make the
setting 244
_Robertson Ward, architect. Photo by Gottscho_
[Illustration]
INTRODUCTION
There is a beginning with everything. So far as this book is
concerned, annual driving trips through Central Vermont are
responsible. They were great events, planned months in advance. With a
three-seated carriage and a stocky span good for thirty miles a day
and only spirited if they met one of those new contraptions aglitter
with polished brass gadgets, that fed on gasoline instead of honest
cracked corn and oats, we took to the road. A newspaper man,
vacation-free from Broadway first nights and operas sung by Melba,
Sembrich, and the Brothers de Reszke, was showing his city-bred
children his native hills and introducing them to the beauties of a
world alien to asphalt pavements and brownstone fronts.
It was leisurely travel. When the road was unusually steep, to spare
the horses, we walked. If Mother's eagle eye spotted a four-leaf
clover, we stopped and picked it. If a bend in the road brought a
pleasing prospect into view, the horses could be certain of ten
minutes for cropping roadside grass. Most of all, no farmhouse
nestling beneath wide-spread maples or elms went without careful
consideration of Father's constant daydream, a home in the country.
These driving trips often included overnight stops with relatives
living in villages undisturbed by the screech and thunder of freight
and way trains, or with others living on picturesque old farms.
Afterward there was always lively conversation concerning the
possibilities of Cousin This or That's home as a country place. This
reached fever heat after visits to Great Aunt Laura who lived in a
roomy old house painted white with green blinds in a town bordering on
Lake Champlain. A pair of horse-chestnut trees flanked the walk to the
front door,--a portal unopened save for weddings, funerals, and the
minister's yearly call.
From here could be seen the sweep of the main range of the Green
Mountains. The kitchen doorway afforded a view of Mount Marcy and the
Adirondacks never to be forgotten. It was the ancestral home with all
the proper attributes, horse barn, woodshed, tool houses, and a large
hay barn. Father's dream for forty years was to recapture it and
settle down to the cultivation of rustic essays instead of its
unyielding clay soil. However, he was first and last a newspaper man
and his practical side told him that Shoreham was too far from
Broadway. So it remained a dream.
His city-born and bred son inherited the insidious idea. Four years in
a country college augmented it and, as time went on, the rumble of
trucks and blare of neighboring radios turned a formerly quiet street
on Brooklyn Heights into a bedlam and brought matters to a head. Great
Aunt Laura's place was still too far away but explorers returning from
ventures into the far reaches of Westchester County, and western
Connecticut, had brought back tales of pleasantly isolated farmhouses
with rolling acres well dotted with trees and stone fences. Here,
thanks to the automobile and commuting trains, was the solution. A
country place near enough to the city, so that the owner could have
his cake and eat it, too.
After some months of searching and several wild goose chases, a modest
little place was found. The original plan was to live there just a few
weeks in the summer, possibly from June into September, but the period
stretched a bit each year. Now it is the year around. We are but one
of many families that have traded the noise and congestion of city
life for the quiet and isolation of the open country. Nor do all such
cling to the commuting fringe of the larger cities. A good proportion
have their country homes some hours' distant, and the city is only
visited at infrequent intervals.
Wherever his country place is located, however, there are certain
problems confronting the city dweller who takes to rural life. They
are the more baffling because they are not problems at all to his
country-bred neighbors. The latter assume that any adult with a grain
of common sense must know all about such trifles as rotten sills, damp
cellars, hornets that nest in the attic, frozen pipes in winter, and
wells that fail in dry seasons.
Of course, no one treatise can hope to serve as a guide for every
problem that comes with life in the open country. This book is no
compendium. It concerns itself only with the most obvious pitfalls
that lie ahead of one inured to well-serviced city life.
WHY LIVE IN THE COUNTRY?
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER I_
WHY LIVE IN THE COUNTRY?
The urge to live in the country besets most of us sooner or later.
Spring with grass vividly green, buds bursting and every pond a bedlam
of the shrill, rhythmic whistle of frogs, is the most dangerous
season. Some take a walk in the park. Others write for Strout's farm
catalogues, read them hungrily and are well. But there are the
incurables. Their fever is fed for months and years by the discomforts
and amenities of city life. Eventually they escape and contentedly
become box numbers along rural postal routes.
Why do city-bred people betake themselves to the country? The surface
reasons are as many as why they are Republicans or Democrats, but the
basic one is escape from congestion and confusion. For themselves or
their children their goal is the open country beyond the suburban
fringe. Here the children, like young colts, can be turned out to run
and race, kick up their heels and enjoy life, free of warnings to be
quiet lest they annoy the elderly couple in the apartment below or the
nervous wreck the other side of that suburban privet hedge.
The day and night rattle and bang of the city may go unnoticed for
years but eventually it takes its toll. Then comes a great longing to
get away from it all. If family income is independent of salary earned
by a city job, there is nothing to the problem. Free from a desk in
some skyscraper that father must tend from nine to five, such a family
can select its country home hours away from the city. Ideal! But few
are so fortunate. Most of us consider ourselves lucky to have that
city job. It is to be treated with respect and for us the answer lies
in locating just beyond those indefinite boundaries that limit the
urban zone. With the larger cities, this may be as much as fifty miles
from the business center; with smaller ones the gap can be bridged
speedily by automobile.
Going to live in the country, viewed dispassionately as an
accountant's balance sheet, has attributes that can be recorded in
black ink as well as those that require a robust crimson. If you
really want a place where you need not be constantly rubbing elbows
with the rest of the world; where you can cultivate something more
ambitious than window boxes or an eight by ten pocket-handkerchief
garden; where subways and street clatter can be forgotten; your black
column will be far longer than the one in red. But if nothing feels so
good to your foot as smooth unyielding pavements; if the multicolored
electric sign of a moving picture palace is more entrancing than a
vivid sunset; you are at heart a city bird, intended by temperament to
nest behind walls of brick and steel. There is nothing you can do
about it either. In the country the nights are so black; the birds at
dawn too noisy; and Nature when she storms and scolds, is a fish-wife.
Possibly you can learn to endure it all but will the game be worth the
candle? Without true fondness for outdoors and an inner urge for a
measure of seclusion, life in the country is drear. Don't attempt it.
But for those who care for the cool damp of evening dew; the first
robin of spring hopping pertly across the grass; or a quiet winter
evening with a good book or a radio program of their own choosing
rather than that of the people living across the hall; country life is
worth every cent of its costs and these bear lightly.
Along Fifth avenue, New York, not far from the Metropolitan Museum, is
a typical town house. A man of means maintains it for social and
business reasons. But he does not live there. His intimates know that
only a few minutes after the last dinner guest has departed, his
chauffeur will drive him some twenty miles to a much simpler abode on
a secluded dirt road. Here, he really lives. Whistling tree toads
replace the constant whir of buses and taxicabs.
Most of us cannot be so extravagant. We are fortunate to have one
home, either in the city or the country. Renting or buying it entails
sacrifices, and maintaining it has its unexpected expenses that always
come at the wrong time. What do those who live beyond the limits of
cities and sophisticated villages gain by hanging their crane with the
rabbits and woodchucks?
First, country living is the answer to congestion. Even the most
modest country cottage is more spacious than the average city
apartment. Life in such a house may be simple but not cramped. There
is light and air on all sides. This may seem unimportant but did you
ever occupy an apartment where the windows opened on a court or were
but a few feet from the brick wall of another warren for humans? If
the sun reached your windows an hour or two a day, you were lucky. In
a country house there is sunlight somewhere on pleasant days from
morning to night. That difference can only be understood by those who
have known both ways of living.
In town, light and air cost money; along the rural postal routes it is
as much a part of the scheme of things as summer insects or winter
snows. And it may have a very definite bearing on the well being of
all members of the family. Some suffer more than they realize from
lack of sunlight. Frequently it is the children and, with many
families, decision to move countryward is on their account. In fact,
there be some, where father and mother, if they consulted their own
preferences, would stay in a city apartment convenient to theatres and
shops, with friends and acquaintances close at hand. But their small
children lack robustness. The parents try everything, careful diet,
adequate hours of sleep and all the other recommendations of
scientific child rearing. Still the little arms and legs continue to
be spindling. Tonics and cod liver oil fail to get rid of that pinched
look, the concomitant of too little sunlight and too many hours
indoors. In desperation such a family betakes itself to the country.
The children weather tan. They respond to the more placid life and
gradually gain the much sought after hardiness. Nature has been the
physician without monthly bills for house or office treatments.
The children are not the only ones who gain. Healthy adults renew
their energy and crave activity. Here opportunity lies close at hand.
It may be swinging a golf club or going fishing. It may be such
unorganized methods of stretching muscles and increasing breathing as
pushing a lawn mower, raking leaves or weeding the delphinium border.
All these sports and homely out-of-door duties and pleasures are
nearby, many of them just the other side of the front door. Those
classed as sports may require a country club membership but even this
is on a more modest scale.
In fact, all potent are the economies made possible by leaving city or
closely built suburb. House and land, either bought or rented, comes
cheaper and is more ample. Along with this basic saving there are a
number of others that help to leave something from the family income
at the end of the year. Clothes last longer in the country and
wardrobe requirements are simpler. Similarly, there is a distinct
decrease in the money spent for amusements. When the nearest moving
picture house is five miles away it is easy to stay at home. Going to
the movies is not a matter of just running around the corner and so
done automatically once or twice a week. Then there are such things as
doctor's bills. While sickness, like taxes, visits every family no
matter where it lives, we have found that we actually have less need
of medical care living in the sticks than we did in town. Also the
charges for competent care by both doctors and dentists are lower.
For the family inclined to delve in the soil, a definite saving can be
accomplished by tending a vegetable garden, raising small fruits and
berries, and even maintaining a hen roost. Some people (I would I
could honestly include myself) have a gift for making things grow and
getting crops that are worth the work that has gone into them.
Likewise there is such a thing as possessing a knack with that
unresponsive and perverse creature, the hen. Possibly good gardening
and an egg-producing hen-yard are the result of willingness to take
infinite pains but, out of my disappointments and half successes, I am
more inclined to hold that it is luck and predestination. So, I have
reduced agricultural activities sharply, but I do know families where
each fall finds cellar shelves groaning under cans of fruits and
vegetables, products of the garden, and foretelling distinct economies
in purchases of canned goods or fresh vegetables.
One of the largest single savings that country life makes possible is
elimination of private school tuition. Theoretically city public
schools are good enough for anybody's children. Actually most good
neighborhoods have an undesirable slum just around the corner and the
public school is for the children of both. So, many city-dwelling
families, not from snobbishness but because they do not want their
young hopefuls to acquire slum manners and traits, dig deep into their
bank accounts and send their children to private schools.
Seldom is this necessary in the country, especially if the educational
system is investigated beforehand. Instead, the children start in a
good consolidated graded school, proceed through the local high
school, and are prepared for college with all the cost of tuition
included in the tax bill that must be paid anyway. The children are
none the worse for this less guarded education. They are, in fact,
benefited for they have a democratic background that makes later life
easier.
Besides these creature comforts and financial gains, there are the
intangibles. Chief of these is that indescribable something, country
peace. All the family responds to it. It is impossible to maintain the
highly-keyed, nervous tension that characterizes city life when the
domestic scene is surrounded by open fields or an occasional bit of
woodland. The placid calm soothes frayed nerves and works wonders in
restoring balance and perspective toward family and business problems.
The harassed come to realize the inner truth of "God's in his heaven,
all's right with the world."
Along with this, the family transplanted from the city gradually comes
to know the genuine joys of much simpler pleasures. Separated from
the professional recreations that beckon so engagingly in cities and
the larger towns, adults and children alike develop resources within
themselves. They learn that they can be just as contented with homely
enjoyments as they ever were when they sat passively and were amused
by some one who made it his profession. A tramp through the woods in
the fall when there is a tang of frost in the air; the satisfaction of
a long-planned flower bed in full bloom; a winter evening with a log
fire blazing on the living-room hearth; are simple but as genuine as
any of the pleasures known to city folk. Better yet, they are not
exhausting. "Few people are strong enough to enjoy their pleasures," a
friend once wisely observed. In the main, however, those of the
country are less taxing and leave one refreshed which, after all, is
the true purpose of recreation.
Against these gains of country living the costs must also be reckoned.
These, as stated earlier, will hardly be felt if the individual really
likes the country in its smiling moods as well as its frowning ones.
One which the family recently separated from city ways may find
hardest to accept is a demand for self-reliance. If the furnace will
not burn, a water pipe springs a leak, a mid-winter blizzard deposits
a snowdrift that all but blocks the front door, father or some one
else must rise to the situation.
The country home has no janitor. The nearest plumber is two or five
miles away. No gang of snow shovelers knocks at the door with offers
to attack the mislocated snow at a price, albeit the highest they
think the traffic will bear. Pioneer-like, some or all of the family
must turn to and cope with such situations. Doing so, whether
temporary like closing a pipe valve to stop the cascading water until
the plumber arrives, or permanent like mastering the idiosyncrasies of
the furnace, has its reward. From oldest to youngest, after a year or
so there comes a sense of ability to cope with the unforeseen rather
than to stand meekly by waiting for George to do it.
Again, it is not always smiling June with gentle breezes. There are
also January, February and March, the months winter really settles to
his task and delivers, as he will, snow storms, or spells of
abnormally cold weather that make the house hard to heat and may
freeze pipes. There are also rainy spells of two or three days'
duration that come any time, spring, summer or fall. It is fun to be
in the country when the sun shines. There are so many things to do and
see out-of-doors. It is totally different when it rains and rains and
still keeps on until everything outside is dripping and sodden. Then
comes the testing time. Child or grown-up must accept such bad weather
and make light of its restrictions, or country living is hard indeed.
But did you ever put on boots and oilskins and go for a long walk in
the rain just for the pure joy of it? Try it some time. You will see
fields and bushes with different eyes and hear that most musical of
all country sounds, the rush of tiny brooks in full flood. Even the
birds have their rainy day manners and ways.
[Illustration: THE OGDEN HOUSE, FAIRFIELD, CONN. BUILT BEFORE 1705, IT
HAS BEEN RESTORED TO PRESERVE THE ORIGINAL DETAILS
_Miss Mary Allis_]
The most ardent country advocate, however, cannot deny that in some
respects such a life has certain expenses not entered in the budget of
families living in town. First and foremost, if father has his city
job there is the monthly commutation book as well as the occasional
railroad fares when other members of the family go to the city. There
is no argument about it. These are added expenses but they are more
than offset by reductions in the fixed charges. Also by selecting
where you will live, transportation costs can be controlled.
Expenditures incident to entertaining are another matter. One of the
pleasantest things about living out-of-town is the week-end. From
Friday night or Saturday noon until Monday morning the city is
forgotten. Of course, part of the time, you will want to share these
days with friends still cooped in apartments. Week-end guests vary the
picture and are worth both the effort and money entertaining them
involves. But don't think that will be all. No country-living family
is safe from either friends or casual acquaintances in these days of
motor cars. They will appear most unexpectedly and assume that you are
as delighted to see them as they are to have you as an objective for a
Sunday afternoon motor trip.
At first it is flattering to have people come so far just to see you.
Then the novelty of it wears a little thin and you begin to realize
that frequently Monday morning finds the refrigerator swept bare. In
time it will dawn on you that part of the up-keep of a country home
revolves around feeding your self-invited guests. It would not be so
bad if they would telephone ahead so that you could be prepared, but
that is not one of the rules of the game. Instead, it is taken for
granted that living in the country, you have a never-failing pantry.
The solution lies in preparedness. From early spring until about
Thanksgiving time, have in reserve some simple supplies for an
acceptable afternoon tea or Sunday night supper.
One household of my acquaintance always has large pitchers of milk, a
supply of crackers, two or three kinds of cheese, a platter of
sandwiches, home-made cake and a hot drink. As many as wish are
welcome to come at the last moment for this standard Sunday night
supper. Its simplicity has earned this repast a wide reputation and it
is considered a great lark to go there. Incidentally, this truly rural
supper is so inexpensive that it matters little how many are on hand
Sunday evenings. Also the chore of washing dishes after the last
guests have gone is reduced to lowest terms, likewise an item not to
be overlooked.
This trend toward country living, now so far flung as to be a
characteristic of American life, is not just a fad. It has been a slow
steady growth and has behind it a tradition of a century and more.
When our larger commercial centers first began to change from villages
to compact urban communities, there were those who found even these
miniature cities far too congested. It was incomprehensible to them
that a family should exist without land enough for such prime
requisites as a cow, a hen-yard, and a vegetable garden. No family
that really lived and properly enjoyed the pleasures of the table
could be without them. Besides, epidemics of yellow fever came with
summer as naturally as sleighing with winter.
So for health and good living they began to move far into the
country,--that is, three or four miles out of town,--and stage coach
routes were established to transport the heads of such families to and
from business either the year around or for the summer months. These
stages or the private carriages of the more ostentatious were, of
course, horse-drawn which limited the distance which could be
traveled.
The next step was the railroads. Hardly were they practical means of
transportation that could be relied on day in and day out, before
commutation tickets were offered for those hardy enough to endure
daily trips of a dozen miles or more between home and office.
Gradually the peaceful farming villages surrounding cities were
transformed into something new to the American scene, the suburban
town, but it remained impractical for most people to live farther from
the station than a convenient walk. When electric car lines were
added, the distance was extended materially and the farm lands just
outside these suburban towns took on new value. Near car lines, they
could be sold to those not primarily concerned with agriculture. The
interurban electric roads also made many so-called abandoned farms in
various parts of the country practical for families who wished to live
farther from commercial centers either throughout the year or for the
summer months, since they provided that great essential, a quick
means of getting to shopping towns. Still great sections of back
country, too far from railroads and electric car lines, remained
strictly rural.
Finally the automobile, made inexpensive enough for families of
average income and provided with that great innovation, the
self-starter, changed it all. This was not so very long ago.
Approximately with the World War came the moderate-priced car that
need not be cranked by hand. Driving it was no longer a sporting male
occupation too often marred by broken arms and sprained wrists, the
painful outcome of hand-cranking when the motor "back-fired." With the
self-starter car driving went feminine. Mother, as well as father,
could and did drive. It was now practical for automobile owning
families to live farther from railroad stations and villages.
Unnoticed at the time, a new sort of pioneering began. City-dwelling
people turned hungry eyes toward the cheap country farmhouses located
beyond limits of horse and carriage travel. By 1920, this trend was in
full swing and greatly expedited by the program of highway improvement
and rebuilding that spread across the country.
With a quick and easy means of travel, good roads, telephone and
electric service, farmhouses which but a few years before had been as
isolated as when Horace Greeley was thundering, "Go West, young man,
go West," were isolated no more. Prices rose but not beyond the
purchasing power of those who sought escape from city congestion or
the restrictions of fifty-foot suburban lots. The gasoline age had
done it. It had married rural peace to rapid transportation. If you
had to earn your living in the city, it was no longer required that
you and your family live in its midst. A tranquil country home was
yours if you would reach for it.
SELECTING THE LOCATION
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER II_
SELECTING THE LOCATION
It is to be questioned whether any city dwelling family suddenly
determines to move to the country. Such changes in one's way of life
are not decided as casually as trading in the old car for a model of
the current year. Usually the decision to pioneer backward is reached
so gradually that those who take the step can hardly tell in
retrospect just when the die was cast. A vacation or summer in the
country may have put it in mind. Then a period of vague indecision
follows when city and country appear about equally attractive.
Suddenly some chance happening turns the scale.
A week-end invitation for cider making in the Hoosatonic Valley in
early November would seem harmless enough, but from it dated our own
determination to cease to be city dwellers. It must be admitted that
the stage-setting was perfect. A twenty-mile ride on the evening of
our arrival through the sharp clear air with a full harvest moon
hanging high in the heavens, while along the way lights twinkled
hospitably from the farmhouses that dotted the countryside. A bright
crisp morning and a breakfast of sausages, griddle cakes and syrup.
This would have been viewed with lack-luster eye in our overheated
city apartment but was somehow just right in this fireplace heated
country room with a tang of chill in the far corners.
Later we were to find that plenty of November nights could be raw and
stormy; that fireplaces could sulk and give out such grudging heat as
to make the room wholly chill. But none of this appeared on that
memorable week-end. It waxed warm enough at midday for all of the
outdoor pleasures that the country affords. We were in congenial
company and evening found us with a sense of peace and well-being that
more than balanced the loss of a theatre or dinner party in town. We
were guilty of the usual platitudes about "God's country and the
normal way to live" and knew they were that but didn't care.
However, there was no rushing around to get a place right across the
way. A whole winter went by, pleasantly spent doing the usual things.
Then came spring, a season that not even the city can wholly
neutralize. There were a number of seemingly aimless Sunday trips
beyond the urban fringe. There was considerable casual comment on
various houses in attractive settings. One charming old place ideally
located on a back road proved to be part of a water-shed reservation.
Another equally charming plaster house was "too far out." As we
admitted that, we realized that we had joined that not inconsiderable
group who "want to have their cake and eat it too." That is, we really
wanted a place in the country but we wanted it near enough so that the
desk of the very necessary and important job could be reached without
too much effort. Also the idea of an occasional evening in town was
not to be dismissed lightly.
Such humdrum items as railroad time tables were consulted. Having
decided that the ideal location would be one in which the time
required for train trip and motoring from house to station would come
within an hour, we limited our search to that section just beyond the
suburban fringe in Connecticut and Westchester County, New York. We
had no clear idea of the type of house we wanted, save that it be old
and of good lines. We looked with and without the aid of real estate
dealers. We deluged our friends already living in the country with
queries.
We found a disheartening number of fine old houses, located just
wrong. There was a splendid, two-story brick house with hall running
through the middle. But it stood in the commercial section of a
village, its door steps flush with the sidewalk, and was hemmed in on
one side by a gas station. There was a neat little story-and-a-half
stone house with picket fence, old-fashioned rose bushes, and
beautiful shade trees. It had once been the parsonage of the
neighboring church. Unhappily the old churchyard lay between.
Now, we are not people who whistle determinedly when passing a marble
orchard at midnight nor do we see white luminous shapes flitting among
the tombstones. But daily gazing upon one's final resting place, we
felt might, in time, prove depressing. Besides, we were by no means
certain that our friends had developed the callous indifference of a
young couple we heard of years later. Curiously free of inhibitions,
these two people bought an attractive old farmhouse with a family
burying lot located a fair distance from the house. The little plot
with its eight or ten simple headstones was unobtrusive and rather
gave an air of family roots deep in the soil, a quality all too rare
in America. These young vandals could not let well enough alone. They
uprooted the headstones and laid them end to end for a walk to their
front door! They were considering the plot itself as a possible tennis
court when outraged public opinion forced them to put the stones back.
In fact, the general hostility was so marked that they finally
abandoned the place and it was later sold at a distinct loss.
But back to the little gray parsonage; its location and the fact that
train service in its vicinity was poor, were the two deciding votes
against it. Another attractive house in a good location was ruled out
because our car got stuck in a spring hole practically in sight of it.
A mile or so of dirt road to the station is no drawback, provided it
is passable at all times of the year. This one was obviously poor,
even in summer. Finally a real estate broker showed us a picture of a
modest 18th century farm cottage. We visited the place one dreary
sunless day in late March, investigated the neighborhood, determined
the time required to drive to the nearest railroad station, and bought
it, all in one week.
In general, we are not sure that such haste is advisable. There were
certain disadvantages that we did not observe; there were others where
we turned a blind eye because we were infatuated with the place and
determined to have it. Fortunately time has taken care of practically
all of these. In short, we have come to believe that a place in the
country is, like marriage, just what you make it. In both cases,
though, one's emotions should be under control, so here are a few
salient points for the searcher after a suitable location.
First and foremost, decide on the sort of life you wish to lead. Then
pick your location to fit it. If you are not chained to a city desk
five days a week but at best make only one or two weekly trips there,
a railroad journey of two or three hours is endurable especially when
a highly attractive place lies at the end. For such a person, the
radius in which to look for likely places is much extended and the
farther out, the more advantageous the prices. But for one individual
so fortunately situated, there are more than a hundred who must choose
a place near enough for daily trips to the city.
For the latter the ideal situation is, as stated before, an hour from
house to office. That is the ideal but, in all honesty, we must admit
that few attain it. The average country commuter is a born optimist
on this point and will unblushingly distort facts in a manner to put
the most ardent fisherman to shame. But figures don't lie. If the time
table, say between Stamford, Connecticut, and the Grand Central, New
York, gives its fastest running time as fifty minutes, it means
exactly that. You may plan to hurtle through the air at sixty miles an
hour to the station but traffic and road conditions will not always
let you. Besides, what is the hurry? Allow twenty or thirty minutes
instead of fifteen for a normal run of twelve miles and have peace of
mind. That gives you an hour and ten or fifteen minutes between your
house and the city. Add the time needed to get from the train to your
office and you know what is before you. We mention this station trip
of twelve miles as about the maximum for the hardy commuter although
there are a few who take more punishment than that. Of course if the
perfect place can be found only four to six miles from the station
that is all the better.
Transportation is an all important consideration both as regards time
and expense. There are beautiful countrysides fairly near large
centers that are so hampered by poor train service as to be almost out
of the question for the everyday commuter. Of course, there may be an
adequate service or it may be practical to drive to and from business.
The latter is not at all uncommon with the country areas near the
smaller industrial centers. Here the fortunate commuter is free from
exacting train schedules; a five or ten minutes' drive sees him
outside the city limits, and another twenty or thirty may find him
rolling into his own driveway. Smooth sailing between office and home
depend only on a reliable car and good roads.
One should make sure the latter are passable in the winter at all
times. For instance, are the Town Fathers liberal with the snow plow?
Can its cheery hum be heard even at midnight if a heavy fall of snow
makes it necessary? Does it come down the little dirt road where your
modest acres are located? These are questions all commuters should ask
whether their journey cityward is made entirely by automobile or
partly by train. Further, whatever means of transportation are used,
the monthly cost should be reckoned carefully. It is one of the
largest single items involved in this scheme of living in the country
and working in the city.
There is also the question of food and other household supplies.
Granted one no longer expects to run around the corner for a loaf of
bread or a dozen eggs that may have been left off the morning shopping
lists, just how far away is the nearest grocer? Is he at all receptive
to the idea of making an occasional delivery in the outlying
districts? How about the rubbish collector, if any; the milkman; the
purveyors of ice, coal and wood? Are there a lighting system in the
vicinity, telephone facilities, and so forth? These last need not be
deciding factors, all other things being equal. They are simply
matters to investigate. It is then for the family to decide whether to
do without any or all of them if necessary.
Besides in a wisely chosen location, these, though lacking at first,
are soon added as the demand grows. When we began our own experiment
in country living, it was with difficulty that we got even a telephone
installed. Instead of electricity, our evenings were lighted by
candles or kerosene lamps and our meals were cooked on an oil stove.
Grocers and other tradesmen didn't even know how to get to the little
area. Yet within three years enough other people like us had moved
into the vicinity to warrant extension of electric service through the
neighborhood, and a milk route, rubbish service, deliveries of
laundry, food, ice, and other household needs were soon added. The
Fuller brush man has for years known the way to our door and now even
our Sunday newspapers are delivered, although we are six miles from
the nearest news stand.
This brings us to the question of neighborhood, which is important.
Beware of a place too near a small factory settlement. The latter is
apt to grow and destroy the peace you have come so far to get.
Besides, your property value will decline in direct ratio. We once
knew a charming place set high on a hill with neat hedges, shrubs, and
arbors reminiscent of England, birthplace of the man who built and
developed it. The family that bought the property forgot to look down
at the foot of the hill. If they had, they would have seen a large and
efficient looking factory and could have read the signs accordingly.
The disadvantages of a country home located close to a hamlet
inhabited by old native stock families that have degenerated should be
weighed carefully. Such people resent what they consider unwarranted
intrusion by newcomers and have many underhanded ways of expressing
their antagonism. Of course, if these settlers are merely tenants and
the region shows distinct signs that a number of city pioneers are
about to buy property there, it may be a gamble worth taking, since
one can always buy property cheaper before a boom than after it has
set in. Also, these settlements are frequently located in the most
beautiful sections of the country. Some of the houses are quaint farm
cottages that only need a thorough cleaning and a little intelligent
restoration to make them attractive homes for any one.
Again, some of the most picturesque and desirable locations are off on
by-roads. They are much to be preferred to property directly on the
main highway since they are well away from the roar of traffic; and if
there are children or pets, one need not be constantly on the alert to
keep them from straying off the premises. However, half a mile off the
main highway answers the purpose as well as a longer distance and one
must be sure that half mile is passable at all times of the year.
We have in mind one young couple who bought a place in Vermont. It
stands well up on a hill and the view is worth going many miles to
see. A picturesque dirt road winds a crooked mile up to it. Very
attractive for summer but these two live there the year around. The
snow drifts deep in winter, and early spring and late fall find the
mud so deep that the average car bogs down hopelessly. Thus, they are
virtual prisoners during these seasons. Of course that is an extreme
case and even here the road can be made passable but only at heavy
expense which must be borne principally by the householder.
Lastly, in selecting the locality for your experiment in country
living, if there are children consideration of schools is essential.
The ratings and relative standings of graded and high schools in
various localities, may be easily obtained through state educational
authorities, college entrance boards, and similar organizations. But
even where the rating report is good, personal investigation is
advisable. Certain social elements enter in, despite the sound and
democratic principles underlying the American public school system.
For example, a would-be country dweller leased a house, with option to
buy, in a very good neighborhood. House, location, and surroundings
exactly pleased and it was a scant ten minutes from the station on a
good road. The school system was well rated but the graded school for
this section drew a majority of its pupils from a textile mill
settlement two or three miles away. The children of the English
spinners and weavers were decent, well-behaved youngsters but their
speech was distinctly along cockney lines. Within a few months the
three small sons of the new country dweller had developed habits of
speech native to the English textile towns. Stern correction at home
availed little and their parents abandoned the idea of buying in that
locality. Instead, another was selected after personal inspection of
the school to which the three boys would go. The new home is not, in
some respects, as attractive as the other nor is it as convenient for
commuting, but one cannot have everything. They are content and the
small boys are once more expressing themselves with a New England
accent.
In inspecting both the graded and high schools of a neighborhood that
pleases you, the obvious things are the buildings, school bus service,
play space, provisions for school lunches and so forth. These are
tangible and can be readily observed. Much more important are the
intangibles. These include the scholastic standing of the particular
school; the pedagogical ability and personality of the individual
teachers; and, finally, whether those who manage village, borough, or
town governments, provide adequate school appropriations.
Schools that really educate children can be operated on starvation
budgets but, more often than not, the quality of teaching suffers.
Likewise the schools of a town reflect the capacity and ability of
those in charge. To judge this, make it a point to meet the local
school superintendent. If there is a parent-teachers association, a
frank discussion with its leader is an excellent idea. From talks like
these you can sometimes gather cogent information that neither
superintendent nor member of the school association would or could put
in writing. If possible observe the school while it is in session. The
attitude of teachers and children should enable you to form an
estimate of it as a whole.
In determining the scholastic standing of a high school, its rating by
college entrance boards, the success in college of recent graduates,
and kindred data can be readily obtained and will tell a complete
story. However, under present conditions, there are some excellent
high schools which pay little or no attention to college preparation
because relatively few pupils intend to enter college. If this
condition prevails at the high school your children would normally
attend and your plans for them include college or technical school,
recognition of it is important. A year or two in a good private school
that makes a specialty of college preparation is probably the answer.
But don't wait until a son or daughter is nearly through the local
high school to discover this lack of specific preparation.
If, on the other hand, you do not intend to send your children to the
schools where tuition is included in the tax bill, be just as careful
in judging the private school. The term private means just what it
says, it is open to children whose parents make private or separate
payment for their education. This condition, however, is no guarantee
that the quality of teaching will excel or even equal that of the free
or public institution.
The private ventures are not under as rigid supervision as those
supported by tax revenues and we have known of instances where the
former were distinctly below standard. With a private day school
having relatively few pupils and a tuition revenue only slightly above
the cost of operation, it requires considerable strength of character
for its owner not to gloss over a pupil's shortcomings. If dealt with
impartially, these might mean that darling Willie would be withdrawn
and sent elsewhere. Loss of tuition is the nightmare of the head of
such a school. Hence, fear of financial loss, dread of disagreeable
interviews with parents, or misguided leniency can have a very bad
effect on the education and training of the pupils.
Yet there are small day schools and larger institutions with both day
and resident pupils that give superior training. It is largely a
matter of the attitude and capacity of the principal or head. If he or
she is a real teacher and has good assistants, the children will be
well taught, regardless of the physical plant. So, in choosing a
private school, make sure the education it affords is worth the
tuition father pays.
Putting the children in a private school necessitates one thing more.
That is transportation. Sometimes a private bus takes care of this
matter. If not, mother must be tied to a daily schedule of driving the
youngsters to and from school. This usually entails a second car.
Here, as with other matters, the initial cost is by no means all;
there is the up-keep. This should not be overlooked, for in the twelve
years between the first grade and the last high school year, it
becomes an increasing burden as school hours lengthen and athletic
activities become, to the children at least, supremely important.
SHOPPING FOR PROPERTY
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER III_
SHOPPING FOR PROPERTY
The early American pioneer pushed into the wilderness looking for a
likely spot to settle. When he had either found it or had traveled as
far as he could, he staked out land and built a rude shelter for his
family until such time as he could afford better. Today's pioneer
decides whether he will have a house and five or more acres in
commuting distance of the city, a farm several hours away from it, or
a sporting estate. Then, still seated in an easy chair, he reaches for
real estate advertising as found in newspaper, magazine or folder.
For the first, nothing is better than newspaper classified
advertising, particularly that found in the Sunday paper. If he would
have a farm far from the madding crowd, there are the farm catalogues
issued by a variety of real estate organizations. These can be most
helpful if intelligently read. And the prospective buyer of a fancy
farm or sporting estate will do best to turn to the advertising
columns of those magazines where the editorial scope deals with that
type of country life.
[Illustration: AN OLD FARMHOUSE IN THE ROUGH
_Photo by John Runyon_]