The Cove

To say that last night was Chilly would be an understatement. I worked on Day 3, Letter C of my challenge and when I got home, I piled the fuzzy blankets on my side of the bed and snuggled in. The laptop was next to me and I had good intentions of writing before midnight but alas, the warmth soon enveloped me and I was sound asleep. Today is a new day and I am going to still do Letter C because without it, we wouldn't have cats, carpet, chrysanthemums, caffiene or cheery. And let's not forget cotton, cows, cabbage and caboose. If not for the this third letter of the alphabet, I would not have had the privilege of growing up in The Cove.

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In February 1976 when I was five years old and in Kindergarten, my parents, two sisters and I moved to the community known as "The Cove". Exactly two miles in from Rt. 219 and smack dab on top of a big hill that we thought was very much like a mountain without the snow, my parents cleared trees, dug a foundation and built a house. They had bought this piece of woodland from Mr. Glass, a little more than an acre and before long it was not just a structure with four sides and a roof, but a home, complete with the laughter of three little girls who liked to pretend they were Mary, Laura, and Carrie Ingalls. In some ways, it felt a little like being pioneers as there were no other houses in sight. At the time, there wasn't even mail service to the top of the hill and my parents had to apply for it. In the years following, more folks decided to build and our little corner of the Cove became more settled with Margroffs and Mausts, Harmans, Sines, Shefts and Stemples.

Before our yard was in existence, there was a grand mountain of a rock and dirt pile complete with an equally grand black snake. Then, those pioneering Ingalls girls were replaced with Holly, Molly and Polly who lived in "The Land of The Lost" and spent hours evading dinosaurs while gathering ink berries or Pokeweed to either make dye or "soup" with.

Many days were spent in the woods surrounding our house and we followed paths that only we knew existed, picking milky white waxy Indian Pipes and May Apples in Spring, stomping on Puffballs, gathering evergreen wood ferns and wild orange Turk's-Cap lilies in the summer and picking tart blackberries in July and August. Dangling grape vines let us be Tarzan and Jane and flat rocks allowed us to survive in the wilderness every time our adventures left us stranded as they became ovens to cook the acorn and leaf stews we concocted.

The woods were shady and cool and at times a little mysterious. In comparison, the wide open sloping field adjoining our property was adrift with sunshine and daisies, violets, timothy and orchard grass, red clover, Queen Anne's lace and little white asters. Maybe this blend wasn't the best for making hay but it was certainly glorious for catching little yellow butterflies (that I think were Alfalfa Butterflies?) and picking wild strawberries when you were lucky to find a patch with ripe berries. They were small but oh, they were sweet!

The Cove, cradled in a valley was, and is, welcoming and warm. When I go visit my parents now, the winding road feels the same and even though it hasn't been "home" for 26 years, it still has a sense of homecoming. I love coming down the first hill past the Dillon place and I always slow down just a little. The white house and barn with its large yard that was once beautiful and romantic in its cottage feel was always my dream place to live. The Dillon sisters were just a bit of a mystery to me and I made up quite a few stories in my head about them.

Then as I go around the sharp turn at the Thomas's I am careful to really slow down. I wrecked there once trying to upright a container of milk that was spilling all over the back seat. What I really remember is how Mrs. Margroff was kind about the fence-posts I'd knocked over and Mr. Margroff even offered to fix the damage without telling my dad.

I go past the churches and I am always thankful that our community was one of faith as well as friendly families. I go down another hill that hits bottom and immediately starts climbing up the steep slope to my house. I am tempted to raise both hands like we used to do, pretending this was a roller coaster ride but I don't because I am driving and another Margroff brother lives here in the house that used to be a general store and I don't need to knock out any more fence-posts. My dad remembers as a boy, when this house was still a store, stopping for pop and ice-cream.

Coming up the hill, I remember how I would close my eyes and try to fall asleep on our way home from Sunday evening church services as my dad would drive up this same hill. The hope was that he would carry me in the house. It never worked.
Talking to my mom and dad, I found out that even though my dad knew people from the Cove, my mom didn't know too many beyond the other Benders that lived in the area. Soon after we moved there, a wonderful neighbor, Myrtle (the same Myrtle who called for the weekly news!) invited my mom to join the Cove Homemakers and as connections were made, friendships were formed  and community was built.

Community, Caring, Charming...The Cove.

Love,
Dianne