Under One Roof: Family Dynamics on a Farm With Connected Buildings

Once common throughout New England, the connective farm consisted of a main house, back house, shed, stable, and barn where families stacked wood, stored crops, cared for livestock, and did other farm chores without exposure to harsh weather. Today more specialized farms don’t require different buildings for a variety of crops and animals. But those that remain remind families of the bonds that tied them together, like the buildings of the farm.

It was late. Every few minutes we could hear the sharp cracking sounds of our century-old farmhouse as it tried to keep the winter cold from seeping in. When the temperature outside dropped below zero, we kids huddled beneath layers of wool afghans, quilts, and thermal blankets.

Dad, however, headed for the barns. When the thermometer hit the lowest mark—30 below F.— we would hear the thump of his slippers as he went down the stairs, through the lower rooms of the house, and out the back kitchen door.

The cellar under the two connecting barns needed to be kept above freezing to preserve the potatoes that were stored there in large bins until March (when they were bagged for shipping). A furnace was located in the northwest end of the farthest barn, and Dad made sure it was fed with enough coal.

Part of one potato bin under the barn.

We were glad our winter duties could be handled in the daytime. No matter how high the wind might pile the snow outside, we still performed our chores in relative comfort under the roof that connected the buildings of the farmstead.

We kept the chickens happy by melting the ice in their water pail with hot water at least three times a day. They also got warm potato skins or scraps of fat skimmed from a soup with their daily portion of corn kernels.

The wilder barn cats refused to inhabit the cozy stable, so we carried table scraps and milk up the ladder to their quarters in the frosty haymow.

We all took turns feeding and tending the animals and, at least twice a day, Dad would don his dusty barn coat and hat and travel from the kitchen, through the connecting back room, shed, barn, and milk room to milk the cow. The stable door’s black handle was white with frost, but the air on the other side of the door was kept warm by the animals, and Dad was greeted by their large, brown eyes each time he entered.

Besides winter chores inside, snow had to be plowed away from all the buildings.

One weekend night, when we kids were up later than usual, we discovered the degree to which Dad took advantage the connected buildings. As we sat at the kitchen table snacking, Dad came running down the stairs and flew past us, wearing his flannel nightshirt and slippers.

“The thermometer’s way below the last mark and I can’t tell what the temperature is,” he panted, as he reached for his hat. “I sure hope those spuds haven't frozen solid by now!”

He grabbed his flashlight and bolted out the door, leaving his coat and scarf behind.

Dad wearing one of his many hats.

We couldn’t believe it. The coldest night of the year and there was Dad, usually a practical type, jogging through the barns and climbing down that rickety ladder in his nightshirt. Had he been doing this all along?

He returned 10 minutes later, relieved that the potatoes were safe.

“I didn’t have to do a thing, but I’ll sleep a lot easier now.”

But we weren’t interested in the potatoes. We wanted to know why he dashed to the barns without a coat.

A summer hat.

“Now don’t go telling your mother on me,” he said, his smile pushing up his rosy cheeks. “I’m in such a hurry to get there, I don’t feel a thing. All I need is my hat to keep my bald head warm.”

And, like Dad’s hat, the roof connecting the buildings of our farm helped keep the warmth of the family inside, safe and strong, despite the storms outside. (This story is also featured in the book: Stories of Aroostook)