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We are proud to announce our new blog. In the coming months we hope to have other contributors who know this land more intimately than we yet do, thereby building for you a richer understanding of this place we now call home. A brand new website full of information and photographs for "The Torgrimson Place" will be going live very soon. Until then welcome to The Torg Blog.

http://torgrimsonplace.com/blog/

"Innkeep show us your wares" - Part 2

I, on the other hand also have a hobby, well not so much a hobby as a commitment to become friends with my industrial sewing machine - sometimes I feel like beating the stuffing out of it with one of Richard's black smith hammers - our working relationship tests my limits. Together  though we have repaired huge sails in close quarters, made awnings and covers for our boat Mandy and now with the help of incredible wool and linen fabrics donated from our friend Gwen Nowrick who has a historical clothing business and is also Jeff Hedgecock's other half, I have made and sold in our inn store several of these "dutch girl" hats which stay on in a stiff breeze skiing and cycling and are beautifully warm all through the winter. Creating something useful and or long lasting fulfills something very basic and definitely soothes the restless inn keeper.
To view Jeff and Gwen's Historic Enterprises website (a thing of beauty) and see their gorgeous newsletter go to: www.historicenterprises.com  
 

“Inkeep show us your wares”

Over a year ago Richard had his first black-smith lessons from our great friend and master armorer Jeff Hedgecock in California. When we arrived here at the inn after purchasing an anvil, joining the Applachian Blacksmith Association and making a small forge from instructions online, he began practicing what Jeff had taught him. Some of Richard’s first knives were made from old saw blades and some were fashioned from Baltimore and Ohio railroad spikes. The most recent knives he has worked on have the handles of deer hunted in these parts by local men for winter meat.
Inn keeping is exhausting and demanding work and it helps to have a creative hobby that refreshes the mind and has a product that will last generations. After a particularly trying week it must be nice to go outside and beat the stuffing out of a piece of metal.

Romance Package?

A couple of weeks ago a fellow called us at the inn asking what we did for a romantic week end for his wife’s birthday. Well we explained that we would have some complimentary sparkling wine on ice and chocolate covered strawberries with a birthday message waiting in their room. He replied, “All that sounds great but what else shall we do?” But there is only so much we can offer, after that the romance meter is theirs to play with. This guy did some homework though bringing a bath head cushion and a contraption for a relaxing bath time. There is a candle, a book stand but here is the question. What is the other support for on the right?

There will be a prize for the best answer. Enjoy!

Near Disaster in the Frozen Waste of Walmart

You can never be dressed too warmly for a winter excursion. We learned this (again) yesterday.

Our forced weekly grocery buying trip to Walmart for the inn’s needs over the New Year, turned into a more than usual struggle of endurance. The temperatures were hovering in the low 20 degrees Fahrenheit, with a wind chill factor dropping that number by ten points. We bought everything on our list and as we exited the store the arctic blast hit us in the face. By the time we had loaded up the truck with our bulging canvas bags, my fingers were beginning to freeze despite my ski gloves.

“You’ve got a flat,” remarked a man getting comfortably into his car next to ours. We both rushed around to his side and you can imagine what we said. The freezing wind howled around our legs and I wished I had put on my Long-Johns and extra socks. We reluctantly began the process of a tire change. Richard got onto his knees in the dirty parking lot slush to place the jack for lifting up the truck. After two years of short handed cruising I am still used to my role aboard ship and I stayed by my 1st Mate’s side offering helpful comments such as “Oooops! The truck just fell off the jack.” and “You should loosen the nuts before you lift it up off the ground.” Meanwhile his gloves were soaking wet and his fingers so painful as they froze up and he could barely get the spare high enough to reach the bolts. With well practiced mutual support and persistence we got the job finished and hauled ourselves back into the cab with the heater on full blast, our eye glasses all a fog. Thankfully the tire place was still open and we stopped to get the flat fixed on the way back to the inn.

We arrived at two minutes before check in time, with the incoming guests waiting in the parking lot for us. It could have been so much worse. I vowed that the next time we poked our heads outside, even if it was just going to the grocery store, we would be dressed like Scott of the Antarctic and his dog. Woof!

The Fatted Calf

Since we have our sons coming here from the west coast, we decided that we needed to give them a sampling of local fare for the Christmas feast, yes a haunch of venison sounded just the thing.

On the way to the Mennonite outpost “Grandma’s Home Style Jams” where we buy our inn gift shop jams and honey we pass an establishment that does the processing and butchering for all the deer and bear hunters in the area, and that is where we stopped to ask if they knew someone who could sell us our desired yule haunch. 

We drew into the compound and were faced with two options, “Office – Drop Off” and “Office – Pick Up”. When we went inside it was evident that the processing business happens somewhere in the middle. No one was behind the counter, so Richard knocked on the inside door. Two seconds later a mountain of a man opened the door. He had fresh blood running up to his elbows and dripping down the jaunty mound of his stomach that was covered by a wax cloth apron. “We’d like to find out where we can buy some venison,” we asked. “Weeell’” he drawled. “Its illegal to buy wild deer meat, alls you can do is pay fer processin’ on a do-nated carcass.” I had visions of roadkill being hauled in by ol’ Grannie. He scratched his immense beard with a bloody finger and announced that he thought they might have such a beast for us. He returned a few minutes later with a positive somewhat unnerving smile on his face. “Yesir, we got us a do-nate, an we’ll only charge you fer half the processin’ since one of the shoulders is too messed up.” We feigned happiness at this pronouncement and after very tidily printing up our receipt he said we could pick up the meat in a few days, when they had done their work.

After our summoning call we expertly chose “Office – Pick Up” and rang the buzzer. CJ Junior (younger, smaller beard but just as huge as his dad) came to wait on us. His hands were caked with ingrained dried blood. Junior had our meat brought out from the freezer by Miz Juliet whose homemade Mennonite frock would have fitted the prize Highland bull standing outside in the snowy pasture. She gave us a sweet, broad smile and handed over the goods all marked efficiently with our name. In the middle of running the debit charge Junior’s cell phone rang. He listened to the caller then said, “Nope, I caint git down six feet, its too hard.” Another pause and then, “Nope, we gonna need a back hoe to git in, I’ll think on it Mom, an call ya back.” Without hesitaion Junior explained that his cousin had been hit by a car and killed the day before and that they were in the process of burying him. At this crushing news we made our sincere condolences to him while he completed our business. He brightly answered, “Naw, it don’t matter, ya know bad thangs happen.” We were unsure if he meant something to the effect, “plenty more cousins where he came from” or perhaps it was just that he needed to show a valiant face despite the sadness in his giant heart.

We threw the bag of venison on top of the heap of snow in our truck bed and marveled at the things we daily learn.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening


Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

By Robert Frost