We had neither aunts with attics nor any attics at all.Īt this point, when sensible women would have given the whole thing up, we started hunting for an old house. Afterwards you furnished such a home with priceless antiques from your aunt’s attic. All we would have to do would be add plumbing, floors, windows, a new roof, fireplace, etc, etc, etc. I consulted all the magazines and found out that for ten thousand dollars we could do over a barn and make a charming home of it. They thought about looking for an abandoned farm, or even just a barn that ‘Jill’ would do up on weekends (her husband was a doctor). They couldn’t find what they wanted at a price they could afford. This was a remarkable statement to which we both referred often in subsequent times. “And think of all the money we would save.” “And the children could play in the brook,” I said.
“We could put up tents and spend lovely summer week ends.” Fresh air,” she added, coughing as a truck ground past. “What we need,” said Jill one day as we breasted the traffic back to the brawling, roaring, fume-ridden city, “What we need is a place in the country. They tried going to parks and for walks together so the children and dogs could get some fresh air, but there wasn’t much of it to be had. Their apartments were tiny, the streets noisy and busy, and Gladys’ apartment was on the fourth floor with an elevator only occasionally functional. Both of them loved and owned Cocker Spaniels. Her childhood friend and college room-mate, Eleanor (called Jill in the books), was married with two children and also lived in New York City.
She and her college professor husband lived in New York City. Recently I picked up Stillmeadow Road at a library booksale and I’ve been reading it with pleasure.Īs best I can piece the story together, Gladys Tabor graduated from college in 1921 and taught college courses, and her daughter was born in 1923. I do not remember my first introduction to Stillmeadow, but I know The Stillmeadow Daybook was one of my earliest adult literary possessions, and it has survived nearly a quarter of a century of regular book purges. For those of us who are agrarians, wannabe agrarians, or just enjoy good writing about country living, the Stillmeadow books are a source of quiet joy and good pleasure.