Saturday afternoon activities at Antlerstock included a discussion of heritage chicken breeds, a home wool processing workshop, and a horse skidding demonstration (using horses to move large logs). Around 5pm we adjourned for a couple hours and would reconvene later for a bonfire. I ventured into town--a blink-and-you'll-miss-it but quaint New England town, complete with the charming country church-and-steeple. Despite having only one coffee shop (which was closed for the day) and no other apparent restaurants, save for the one in the town's hotel, Main Street was home to a fabulous local bookstore. As I browsed the shelves designated for local authors, I was stunned to see that I owned many of the books. I guess authors living in Vermont really speak to me! Finding not much else to do in town, I returned to the farm to help get ready for the bonfire. A pumpkin carving assembly line was in full swing--the Jack O'Lanterns lined the path to the bonfire. It was BYOHB--bring your own hay bale. We carried hay bales from the barn to the campsite, sat two to a bale around the crackling fire, and enjoyed ice cold local craft beer. Instruments were played, stories were shared. We eventually got rained out and fled to the cozy farmhouse for freshly-pressed cider, hot this time.
I called it a night around 10pm and drove back to my hotel in Manchester (another town with a fabulous local bookstore). I'm a nervous driver and the roads were narrow, winding, and dark. Heavy rain pelted the windshield. The speed limit was 55 but I was afraid to do more than 45. I wondered what I'd do if a car got behind me but, incredibly, not a single car followed me during the 40-minute drive!
Sunday was clear and crisp--a perfect autumn day. Back at Antlerstock I conquered my fear of botulism at the canning workshop! If nothing else the skills I acquired over the weekend will keep me from accidentally (1) burning down the house while soapmaking with lye, (2) poisoning the family with improperly canned vegetables, and (3) felling a tree onto the roof.
The weekend concluded with a field trip to the Common Sense Farm, an organic farm and commercial soap-making enterprise run by a somewhat controversial religious community. The folks have that Amish-look--stoic-looking men with beards and glasses, women and little girls in long dresses with kerchiefs around their heads, long-haired little boys with pony tails. I had some pre-conceived notion that they would be serious and quiet, but it turns out that--shocker--they are just regular people with a normal sense of humor. They didn't proselytize; they talked animatedly about farming, not religion. They were gracious hosts and served us delicious tea made from herbs from their 6-acre herb garden, sweetened with honey from their hives, on their rolling 100-acre farm. The family herbalist introduced us to the various herbs that she grows to address health issues in their community. (It was unclear whether they completely eschew western medicine--my impression was that they prefer natural cures but don't prohibit modern medical treatment.) We toured their immaculate barn to see their chickens, goats, and sheep.
We also toured their soap shop, which is in a beautifully converted barn. The lovely--and very modern--offices were formerly horse stalls. As the story goes, when their community decided to set up shop (literally) in this barn, Estee Lauder/Origins provided the financial backing. The relationship ended in 2001 after the Labor Department found a 15-year-old changing a lightbulb in the soap shop. Origins, although sympathetic, didn't want any controversy. While community living with a factional religious group isn't really my thing, I enjoyed this glimpse into their farming and soap business. I don't know enough about the group to judge whether their tenets are untenable. All is I know is that, despite vastly different backgrounds and beliefs, we found some common ground. Perhaps family farming is the great equalizer, several of us mused.
I had to depart for the airport after the field trip. Jenna, the amazing host of Antlerstock, refused to let me go without a small Mason jar of homemade chili "for the road." I said my goodbyes and might have shed a tear or two in the car as I thought of leaving this lush and pastoral paradise with wonderfully unpredictable weather to return to dry, dusty, monotonously sunny southern California.
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