fitzgeralds, down on the farm
Sometimes it was the weather that thwarted our plans: too hot or too rainy on the only days off we could get away. Other times it was maintenance closures, like last summer's repainting of the barn. For twenty-two years, we'd dreamed of visiting the Hovander Homestead out in Ferndale, Washington. With one of the trails only accessible through August, for twenty-two years the barn stars had never aligned within our short summer season to make a trip like this possible. Until now.
It was amazing, far better than we'd ever imagined.
While the stunning red barn and gorgeous farmhouse might have been even more picturesque set against a sunny, azure sky, the overcast conditions granted us a welcome reprieve from the recent heatwave, making last week the perfect opportunity to soak in some local history, ornamented with beauty in such abundance that we could not see it all in a single day. We hiked for hours, commencing our journey at the Tennant Lake Interpretive Center and Fragrance Garden, where hundreds of varieties of plant life indulge the senses with incredible color and redolence. The garden is, in fact, so fragrant, that long after we'd returned home, you'd have sworn we'd each bathed in a heady, floral parfum.
From there, we made the half-mile trek through the wetlands where enormous, flowering lily pads float in a gridlocked mass atop the mirror-like surface of the water. Then, over a rustic wooden bridge, we caught our first glimpse of red. The family farm was near, and we were heading straight for that massive 10,900-square-foot structure--one of the largest wooden barns in Whatcom County. We settled in for a picnic lunch along one boldly painted side, a place where we could watch the ducks and geese and chickens, then tour the barn itself where a hodgepodge of vintage farm equipment is on display, much of it once used by the Hovanders themselves. To be amongst these tools and carts and machines, Dennie—having grown up on a Wisconsin dairy farm—was a very happy camper, and we still had a full itinerary of exploration ahead.
After twenty-two years (and thirty-nine days), we'd finally made it to the Hovander Homestead.
Why all the hoopla, the decades of anticipation? What's so great about a barn or a farmhouse anyway? There are, at last estimate, nearly two million farms remaining across America.
Simply put, this one is...extraordinary.
It was a spring day in 1898 when Swedish architect Hakan Hovander purchased a 60-acre farm along the Nooksack River, adding another 200 acres just a few years later. Until 1903, Hakan, his wife, and their seven children had lived in the log cabins already established on the property, his kids rowing a small boat across the river just to get to school. During those first five years, Hovander had planned for the homestead he'd envisioned, designing his 6,800 square-foot farmhouse and soaking the wood in linseed oil for two years before beginning construction. Future generations and current caretakers have not had to treat the wood again since. It wasn't until 1911, only four years before his death, that Hovander had also completed construction of the barn. The barn is magnificent. The craftsmanship of the home is nothing short of exquisite, boasting the added charm of intricate gingerbread molding and other delightful details.
If not for a few insurmountable facts--the property is not for sale, it's on the historic registry, located in a flood zone, and it's infiltrated by tourists, daily--I'd have no cause to look any further to find my absolute dream home. (You know, unless I agreed with those rigid bank stipulations that insist I should also be able to afford said dream home. Silly, silly banks.)
While the interior was closed to visitors the day we went, the exterior is a breathtaking vision of Victorian architecture surrounded by a bounty of meticulously designed gardens. The front yard explodes with color, broken up by winding walkways, varied arbors, and handcrafted accents like benches and wooden dwellings for the birds and the bees. As we walked around each side of the family residence, we were met by additional beds of carefully laid out flora: a vegetable garden, a berry garden, a native plants garden, a dahlia garden, even a weed garden, each one as educational as it was impressive. The Children's Story Garden is an adorable spot for the wee ones to learn and explore. The half-dozen or so beds have been planted and decorated specifically to illustrate a different children's story, such as The Tales of Peter Rabbit or Pumpkin Soup. An enclosed mini-library sits within the plot so that parents may borrow each of the books and read them to their kids at the corresponding bed. (There's even a darling pig-shaped bench, crafted with a child's stature in mind.) This garden borders a quaint orchard where comely pear trees show off their ripening fruit in row after row after sweet, tempting row.
I haven't a clue how many miles we'd wandered from that morning at the Fragrance Garden to the mid-afternoon moment we'd circled our way back to the Hovander home's enchanting lilies and roses and other blooms, but, by then, Dennie, Maisie, and I concurred: our feet could not endure another step. So we found a bench. We sat. We rested. We watched the flowers grow. For all three of us, it was time deliciously spent--as, indeed, the whole excursion had been. Like any memorable occasion, our hours on this idyllic farm had come to an end in the blink of an eye. Detouring first to see the bunnies, then to bid adieu to the waterfowl, chickens, and the veritable King Kong of roosters--all of whom tickled our dog's funny bone--we hiked close to a mile back to our car.
For the duration of our weary return journey, we wished we could sit. And rest. And watch the flowers grow until such time we'd ultimately spy thousands of delicate petals waking, stretching to meet the rejuvenating kiss of the morning sun. Alas, even farms close up for the night. One day we'll go back, and, come Hellish heat or the flooding Nooksack's notoriously high waters, I'd like to believe it won't take us anywhere near another twenty-two years.
Like this much too fleeting expedition, our summer vacation--our twenty-seventh anniversary celebration--now dwindles down to its final hours. If it weren't our last chance to recover from nine days of yard work and play, when it comes to the homestead, I'd be tempted to say, "Hey, Dennie. Hey, Maisie...how 'bout today?"