The Old Farmhouse   By Alica Hatton    I grew up in a small upstate New York town where the houses were large and old.  Many were Victorian relics sporting cupolas and gingerbread.  They had two and sometimes three stories, and all had full basements.  It was our local folklore that this was the route of the underground railway, bringing blacks North to freedom.
  The farm my family owned was just down the road apiece, and was having a change in tenant farmers.  So, while the old house was unoccupied, my best friend, Joyce and I grabbed our bicycles and went exploring.  We could see the Holsteins in pasture, and pigs in the apple orchard.  It was Autumn, and we could hear the dried out corn stalks.  We sized them up as we sped by, anticipating our Halloween Teepees.
 It was sometimes hard to tell where one farm ended and the next began, but the pastures and fields were well marked by hand stacked stone fences.  Probably built in the early 1800’s, as the land was cleared for plowing, they stood as a nostalgic tribute to remarkable hand labor.  There was a lot of underground water, and streams emerged and sank mysteriously throughout the fields.  The well rounded stones were separated for the construction of basement walls, barns or milk houses.
 We turned our bikes down the lane which went past the barns, silo, and orchards, a mile at least to the very back pasture.
 But on our right, so large and stately, stood the 15 room Victorian Farmhouse.  Built in 1850, it was a true work of art.  Regularly, my dad was contacted by teachers seeking permission to bring their drawing classes to capture its charm and beauty.  One summer, “The Old farmhouse” a watercolor, won a blue ribbon at the county fair.  We never knew the artist but the house looked alive with stories.  The perfection of balance is what stood out most, I think, in making that old house so special.  It had a cobblestone chimney along one side, perfectly proportioned doors and windows, and many gingerbread accents under the roofline.  The windows in pairs, were flanked by massive shutters, and like the sturdy, square shaped house itself, all were clad in natural weathered wood.
 Joyce and I parked our bikes and ran up the flagstone path to the kitchen porch.  We were twelve, and I had never been beyond the kitchen.  Joyce had never been in an empty house.
 The maze-like setting downstairs surprised us.  Rooms led into rooms that led into more rooms.  Some were small, and with 10 foot ceilings they felt misproportioned.  Fireplaces were back to back in adjoining rooms, and all had carved, large mantels above them.
 A long curved stairway rolled up to the second floor where there were 6 or 7 bedrooms off a central hall.  The doorways were tall and narrow, the doorknobs cut glass and mysterious.  We inquisitively explored each room, closet  and cubby, and stopped to enjoy the elevated views.  The rooms seemed endless.  Some had fireplaces, others sliding doors to adjacent rooms.  One had a little sitting room off to the side.
 We laughed at the number of doorknobs we’d turned, and said we felt like mice in a mansion.  We were giddy with enjoyment as we walked into the back bedroom.  It had a closet off to the side, which we opened and stood by in shock.  Behind the empty clothes rack was a stairway, which we raced up to find the spectacular view from the beautifully ornate cupula atop the roof.  It was wonderful!!  We could see for miles, and laughed in excitement, in disbelief, and joy.  We talked about Nancy Drew books with hidden passages of how we could stow away and no one could find us.  It was our ultimate treehouse!  Our glee lasted a while, I don’t know how long, then Joyce looked at me, wide eyed, and said, “remember the underground railway?”  So we stared out the windows imagining the fears and excitement of vigilante groups riding up on horseback.  Heavy footed men marching through this farmhouse, turning those very doorknobs in search of runaways.  We hunched down, motionless, imagining ourselves the pursued.
 Giddy giggles turned to laughter.  We ran down the narrow steps, shut the closet door, and vowed to keep our secret.  The design and gingerbread of the cupula enhanced the beauty of that old farmhouse.  But to us, from the inside, it held stories of doubt and fear.
 A decade later the old farmhouse burnt down.  The ancient wood became a fire trap and upkeep had been lacking.  The rural fire company needed practice, so we salvaged the removable beauty and they torched it.  We sold the land and moved on, now cherishing those select childhood remembrances of an era mostly forgotten.