Harvest on the hill

Submitted by Melody Newey

The first time I saw the home at 1375 North 1750 West my heart almost flew from my chest. "That's my house!" I thought, as I stopped the car in the middle of the street and gawked at the For Sale sign in the front yard. I was traveling north toward University Mall after taking my daughter, Lauren, to piano lessons at Cindy Smith's home.

It was 1996. My children, Lauren, Luke, Sara and I were living in a lovely smaller home near Kiwanis Park in east Provo and we adored our neighborhood and neighbors. But I had been feeling a need to move to a new home (with two bathrooms instead of just one!) and make a fresh start. I was recently divorced and swamped with responsibilities of single parenthood, nursing school and a part-time job. I was in no position to purchase a home, but my desire to find a way to buy what was known as "The Burton Home" was almost unmanageable. I couldn't stop thinking about it.

The massive walnut trees, the iris, day lilies, statice and grapes lining the south boundary were breathtaking. Virginia creeper and English ivy covered the exterior north wall and crept up a corner of the house near the entry. Pear, cherry, apple and apricot trees surrounded the structure and the entire property was flanked by evergreens. The home itself, with those diamond-shape wooden grids in the windows looked like a perfectly peaceful cottage. When we eventually moved in I heard some of the neighborhood kids refer to it as the Snow White House.

The short version of the rest of the story goes like this: The For Sale sign disappeared and I assumed the home had been sold. I actually cried about that when it happened, but moved ahead with life. What else could I do, really? I kept checking the newspaper for other homes. Lauren kept on practicing piano and I kept driving her to and from Cindy's home every week. About a eight months later the For Sale sign re-appeared. By then I had finished school and was working full time.

Within the first few weeks of my new job I was talking with co-workers about a delightful older home I was purchasing in the Grandview area. One of the women in the group spoke up as I described the place. Her eyes lit up and she said, "My parents built that house!" Zoetta Johnston (her maiden name) had spent her early childhood in the home! She told me it began as a single level, below ground structure. Later, as the Johnston family grew and as they could afford it, they added the upper level. She talked about the cherry orchards, irrigation turns and about the unique bricks the house was built with, "Made right here in town at the old Provo Foundry." She remembered how proud her mother was of the self-designed rock wall and mantle over the fireplace in the living room. She remembered the giant coal burning furnace and laughed when I told her the coal scuttle was still there. It was a wonderful connection. And wonderful to learn from Zoetta some of the history of our home.

As I spent more time here I felt a connection with another woman who lived in the house for many years raising her family of--what was it--seven or eight children? She was a gardener, like me. Leah Ashby once told me about Mrs. Burton. Leah said, "I have never seen a woman with more suntanned forearms--from all that mowing and gardening." I haven't met Mrs. Burton but she must have loved the earth because she began what became a sort of Eden for me and my children. It was a place of new beginnings, a beautiful place rich with green, growing, nourishing things. The fruit, the nuts and flowers--the very land itself--fed me. Body and soul. And in turn, I was able to do the same for my growing family.

I always felt it was providence that brought us here.

My children were nine, thirteen and fifteen years old when we moved here in July of 1997. Since then, all three have become happy, healthy, married adults creating "Edens" of their own.

Last week I was transplanting a few things in the cool morning hours beneath the shade of walnut trees. I couldn't help feeling grateful again for this place. I couldn't help writing about it.

Harvest on The Hill
by Melody Newey

We joke about soil and rocks
in this place where we live.
But really it's about bread,
the Bread of Life.

We build houses on foundations of
orchards and farmland--
so much work, so many dreams
cultivated, harvested for
a hundred years or more.

We build our lives on this bedrock,
this firm foundation;
And the house on the rock still stands.

You and I were planted here--
by our parents or grandparents
or because chance, circumstance or
providence moved us to this fertile ground
from where we were before.

Yes, the soil matters.
But it's the soul of this place,
the rock on which we stand,
our daily bread that nourishes us,
fills our homes with light and delight.

You and I are growing here--
while the land, the rain and sunshine
keep us for our Keeper,
make of us a worthy harvest,
His harvest on the hill.