Home for the Holidays (18 page)

“Our friends the Bellwoods both come from farming backgrounds,” Jane told the group as they walked up the pretty cobblestone path to the front door of the two-story, white farmhouse. “Samuel was raised in Idaho on his family’s potato farm, and Rose’s father ran a stock auction business in Lancaster County, which is the heart of Amish country. They met in college, and when they married, Sam’s father gave them this land as a wedding gift, and Rose’s father gave them enough sheep to start their first flock.”

“Do the Bellwoods still raise sheep?” Edwina asked.

Jane nodded. “They certainly do. Samuel and Rose raise Merino sheep, which produce some of the finest quality wool in the world. They also grow most of their own feed.” She concentrated for a moment to recall the tour literature she had studied the previous night. “The architectural style of this farmhouse is considered folk Victorian, with some modifications. Samuel and Rose have made
extensive improvements to the original house, which was built just before 1900.”

The long, white house looked very warm and inviting. It was the quintessential farm home, big and sprawling, with solid lines and delightful details, like the round, green-and-red hex sign above the main entry door, which had been painted with an intricate folk art design of tulips and hearts around two birds, a star and the German word
wilkum
.

“Our region of Pennsylvania is famous for hex signs,” Jane said as she pointed it out. “You’ll see them painted on the sides of barns and over the doors of homes. Although the word
hex
suggests otherwise, these folk art signs are not symbols of superstition. The first German settlers used them to decorate many things, from furniture to pottery to birth certificates. And, to dispel a popular myth, the Amish don’t paint hex signs on their homes or barns.”

“I understand that
wilkum
means welcome,” Edwina said, “but what does the rest of the design mean, Jane?”

“The birds are distelfinks, which are believed to bring good fortune and happiness. The star has long been regarded to be a symbol of luck and bounty.”

Jane was glad for the glimmer of moonlight. Along with the exterior lights, it allowed her to show the group what Samuel and his wife had done to the farmhouse over the years to accommodate their needs.

“Folk Victorian houses usually have a square look to them, which Samuel altered when he built the east and west extensions, as well as the extra rooms on the attic level.” She pointed out each addition. “Under the eaves you can see the scrolled brackets that are typical of folk Victorian style. The brackets, along with a lot of the decorative trim for the house, were actually mass-produced at the end of the nineteenth century and shipped via railroad out West.”

“Why did they do that, Jane?” Ted Venson asked as he took a photo of a particularly intricate bracket piece.

The flash from his camera made spots appear in front of her eyes for a moment. “I don’t know, to be honest. That’s just what the literature your tour company sent me said.” Jane eyed Allan Hansford. “But I’ll wager our friendly architect here can help me out.”

“Settlers of the period often didn’t have access to skilled carpenters or sophisticated woodworking machinery,” he said, his voice a bit hoarse. “Pieces could be ordered individually or by lot, which allowed the home builders in thinly settled areas to design their homes according to their personal preferences.” He pulled out his handkerchief again to catch a sneeze. “I beg your pardon.”

“God bless you,” Jane said, feeling a little concerned. “Mr. Hansford, if you’re not feeling well, I’d be happy to try contacting your driver so he can take you back to your hotel.”

If the van would make it that far
.

“It’s only my allergies, Ms. Howard. I took a tablet this evening after dinner and that should start clearing up the symptoms soon.” He smiled up at the house. “I don’t want to miss the tour of this home. I haven’t had many opportunities to see a working farm, and the house itself has some remarkable attributes. You see the spindle work all along the porch here?” He pointed to the white-painted wood turnings. “This was done by hand, not machine. You can tell from the slight irregularities in the notching. All of the trim appears to be original, which says something about the owner for taking the trouble to preserve it.”

Jane thanked him for the information and finished the presentation on the exterior by pointing out the low pitch of the pyramid roof, the typical front gable and the absence of the usual side wings. “Because the original owner was a widower who never remarried, he built the house as a bachelor’s residence. Samuel and Rose added new rooms as their children came along, so the house grew with their family, as did the amount of livestock they raised.”

Jane’s breath came out in white puffs in the air as she told the group about the barns and shearing sheds on the property. Her nose had gone completely numb by the time she finished.

“There is more I’m supposed to tell you, according to the literature, but we’d all be Popsicles by the time I did,” she said, earning a grateful look from Ted, who was shivering so
much that he stopped taking photos. “So I vote we go inside and meet the Bellwoods.”

“Seconded,” Edwina said.

As Jane led the group into the glass-enclosed front entryway, she didn’t have to tell them that Samuel had installed an area heater for the porch. The transition from the frigid temperature outside to the comfortable warmth made everyone break into immediate sighs of relief.

“The Bellwoods have hosted a living crèche here at the farm every Christmas Eve since I can remember,” she said as she walked up to ring the doorbell. “When my sisters and I were girls, coming to welcome the birth of baby Jesus was one of the highlights of our Christmas vacation.”

Rose Bellwood answered the door and greeted Jane. Samuel’s wife, a petite brunette with a gentle smile, wore her long, dark-brown hair in a crown of braids. She gestured for the group to come in. “You all look so cold. Come into the kitchen. I have some tea and hot apple cider prepared.”

The front foyer branched off in three directions, opening up to a wide stairwell to the right, a living room to the center and the kitchen to the left.

Because four of their five grown children had settled in the area, and their youngest, who was attending Penn State, often brought friends home, Samuel had knocked out a wall to transform their utility room into an oversize dining area.

“We always had most of our family meals in the kitchen
when the children were growing up,” Rose told them. Her merry brown eyes sparkled as she surveyed her kitchen. “Now I have a perfectly beautiful, formal dining room, but the family still prefers eating in here.” She lowered her voice to a confidential tone. “To be honest, so do I.”

If there was one kitchen Jane loved almost as much as Grace Chapel Inn’s, it was Rose Bellwood’s. Cabinets of blonde burl oak with glass fronts were set above wide, dark green marble-topped counters. The appliances were all new, sleek and in the same dark-cream shade as the cabinet wood.

The amount of natural light was another thing that Jane loved. Samuel had installed two additional windows on either side of the sink window, which permitted sunlight to illuminate the entire room. Little brass pots, in which Rose grew herbs during the summer, lined the windowsills.

A four-foot-tall bar in the same oak and marble formed a half-divider between the kitchen and dining area, providing a spot for a quick sandwich or snack. The dining area was as large as the kitchen and contained a sturdy, rustic-looking farmhouse table covered with a red-and-white-checked cloth. Six spindle-back chairs padded with matching cushions accompanied the table.

Rose had the promised cider and tea waiting, as well as a platter of corn muffins and sugar-dusted fruit turnovers.

“Oh, Rose, you shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,” Jane chastised her.

“Nonsense, it’s like the arctic outside. You folks sit down for a spell.” She guided them toward the chairs. “The house isn’t going anywhere.”

Jane could not have asked for a better beginning. The group sat around the table warming themselves with the hot drinks and enjoying the baked goods, while Rose answered their questions about the history on the house.

“The farm was originally planned as a dairy, and in its heyday it provided most of the milk, cheese and butter for the people living in Acorn Hill.” Rose nodded toward the town. “Once refrigeration made it possible to ship and store perishables, however, the dairy began slowly losing business. When Samuel and I took it over from the retired owner, we decided to try our hand at raising wool sheep.”

Rose got up for a moment to fetch an envelope from the counter. From it she extracted some old, black-and-white photographs. “This is what the house looked like originally, before Sam and I took over.”

“Buying a farm must have seemed risky, though,” Allan commented. “I assume neither of you had experience raising sheep.”

“I knew a lot about animals from working with my father, and Samuel had raised just about every type of critter you can think of on his family’s farm in Idaho. Still, when he told me that he thought we should become shepherds only a week after we were married …” She chuckled
softly and pressed a hand to her cheek. “Let’s just say it required a real leap of faith for me.”

Because both Samuel and Rose were very close to Rose’s parents and siblings, all of whom resided in the area, they had plenty of help with the initial work to convert the old dairy into a sheep farm.

“We certainly needed it too,” she told them. “We were fortunate in that the house and the property had been properly maintained over the years, but it was quite a job modifying the barn and livestock sheds. I had a little Kodak camera my folks had given me when I graduated from high school and I used that to take pictures as Samuel and my brothers converted the milking parlor for shearing sheep.”

Rose passed the photographs around the table.

The first ones showed the original condition of the large shed where the cows had been milked, along with younger versions of the Bellwoods. “Is there a big difference between raising sheep and cows, Rose?” Jane asked.

“Sheep are a little better at herding and grazing than cattle. They’ll actually control some of the forage problems in a pasture by eating the weeds. Unfortunately, they’re also more time-intensive, and because of their size, they can be more vulnerable to injury and certain predators.” She sighed. “Then there was our first lambing season. My poor Samuel spent weeks in the lambing jugs—those are special, temporary pens—shearing the mothers before they gave
birth. Then the little ones started coming, and I thought at one point the entire flock would lamb overnight.” She shook her head, remembering. “We were truly fortunate to have the good Lord’s blessings and the help of my family that first spring.”

Jane sorted through the photos, which showed the gradual transformation of the farm. In one shot Samuel and Rose’s brothers were digging out a large, oval hole in the ground. “I didn’t know you had a pool, Rose.”

“Never did. That became our shearing pond. The sheep have to be washed before they’re sheared,” Rose said. “It’s much easier to clean the wool while it is still on the animal than it is to wash fleeces, so the children and I would do that while Samuel and my brothers sheared.” A fond smile curved her mouth. “Chasing the sheep into the pond was always great fun for us, but I suspect the kids liked getting wet much more than our sheep did.”

“Do you still work with your husband tending to the animals, Mrs. Bellwood?” Ted asked.

“Yes. Our farm has always been a partnership effort, and why should I let him have all the fun?” Her eyes twinkled. “My husband also claims that there isn’t a man in the county who can shear a sheep faster than I can.”

Chapter Thirteen

W
hen they had finished their snack, Rose took them back to the living room to begin the tour.

Four slender columns of pale-gray ash supported matching ceiling beams, from which a small galaxy of unusually shaped, golden, paper stars hung. Reproduction Shaker and Amish furniture drew the eye with their clean lines and jewel-toned upholstery, and were complemented by the dark green Christmas tree the Bellwoods had decorated with gilded nuts, flowers and myriad colorful ornaments, many of them obviously made by their children at an early age and carefully treasured ever since.

What most commanded attention were the six quilts Rose had displayed on the walls like fine tapestries. Jane loved the Amish and Mennonite quilts, which were all variations of the classic sunshine-and-shadow patchwork pattern, pairing bright primary color fabrics with rich dark greens, browns and blacks.

“This is where we mostly congregate when we’re not out in the barn or in the kitchen,” Rose said. “I do my
needlework there”—she pointed toward a comfortable armchair beside which stood an oval quilt frame—“and Samuel uses that old desk in the corner there to work on accounts in the evening.”

“A farmer never runs out of weeds or paperwork,” Samuel Bellwood said as he joined them. The farmer was a tall, solid man who seemed to dwarf everything around him. Years of working outdoors had tanned his skin, against which his kind blue eyes seemed clear and bright. He smiled at his wife. “Hello, all.”