One of the more notable escapades at Ridgefield was the time we put in Mom's Bow Windows... Recall, Ruthie was an artist and George desired to provide her with a suitable studio. This was to be upstairs in front (there were several levels to this house as it sprawled down a gentle slope, front to back). One of George's forte's was interior beam work. He personally selected each beam that would later be exposed in the interiors of his homes. These were often very massive affairs, taken from other old homes and barns during our long seasons of salvage and removal. They were often monstrously heavy and awkward - particularly the old oak ones - often so hardened by the ages, that they could only be further cut, mortised and worked upon with carbide-tipped tools...      

     Final touches at the hands of the Master included "baby's bottom" sanding to silky smoothness - and on the old pine ones, already aglow with the golden hue of Time, further enhancements with rubbed oil and secret mixes of George's devising.

     Such a beam had at last been readied for installation in Mom's studio. I believe, in fact, the beam in question, was the very ridge beam itself. I know it had been lying in state for some time, so to speak, waiting, supported on several sawhorses near waist height in the middle of the room. Just beyond the end of the beam, at the end of the room, was a big bow window - another of George's creations - and truly inspired it was, too.

     Back when the company had first moved to the Old Palmer Cider Mill from its onetime quarters up on Putnam Avenue, George and several of us were surveying the Mill one day, mapping out what had to be done, what had to be removed, what had to be left or built around, and so on.

     One thing that had caught George's eyes were the old wooden vats on the lower floor (which later became the lunchroom where the piano played...). These vats - there were several - were huge, maybe 20 feet or more in diameter and 10 or more feet high. (Their tops, in fact, were on the upper level of the Mill). Their bottoms were about 7 feet off the floor, so a man could walk under them. They sat up on timber legs...

     They were, in fact, left over from the old cider- and vinegar-making days at the Mill, and had once retained thousands of gallons of apple juice, I guess, back when it was still operating. Now they were (presumeably) empty, covered with dust and waiting only to be dismantled and removed. I'll never forget the day George was outlining to us just what he wanted done - and how. His object here was to save - at all costs - the large curved wooden members which served as gracefully-arched retainers every few feet up the side of the vats. He had plans for those...

     To emphasize his caveats, and perhaps to prime us all and get us ready to go to work, George - who was standing in under one of the vats - gave a resounding thump! with his pinchbar on the bottom of the vat overhead to show how we were to first break through the bottoms of the vats, and thus gain entry to them, so some of us could crawl up inside and go to work, while others fell to on the vat exteriors. Another thump! and another - the bottom wood was more weakened with age than the vat sides, and suddenly his bar went clear through and he opened a large hole right over his head into the vat.

     For a moment - nothing happened. Then there was a curious whooshing! sound - and plop, plop, gurgle - and with a rush about a ten-gallon blob of vinegar "mother" rushed from the hole and poured smack over George's head! He stood transfixed for a minute while this mass of slime cascaded down upon him, covering him to the waist. Then with a roar, he jumped sideways out of the flow. What a mess! What a beautiful stream of invective - I won't even try to recreate it...

     It seems that this particular vat must have been abandoned by the mill workers long ago while still it had about a foot of juice in the bottom. Over the years since the mill's shutdown, this originally sweet apple juice had run the gamut of Mother Nature's inevitable change into first vinegar, and then finally mostly conversion to the slime called Mother-of-Vinegar, or just "mother" to cooks, bakers, and brewers who must employ it in their duties...

     I only know that the strong reek of vinegar that day was the only thing before or since that ever wiped out - completely - the odor of George's cigars...

     But - in time - the desired members from the vats were removed and taken up to Ridgefield, and there George used them as the horizontal components in a vast and ornate bow-window he built. Eventually, all the mullions and strips were individually cut and mortised in, and the glazing done and the window - beautiful to see - installed in the side of the house.

     Came the day to hoist the beam aloft and secure it into its final resting place. All hands were stationed down the beam's length and the plan was to raise it in unison - up, up, and onto some kind of scaffolding from which it was to be further manuvered into its final resting place. George stationed himself at the end of the beam - facing down its length, with the end pointing at his ample belly, and his back to the bow window behind him.

     "The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley", was never further proven than what followed next. Inexplicably, somehow, during the team lift of the beam, its inertial mass shifted forward. This was communicated to the several sawhorses upon which it rested and as these now tipped over in unison on two legs each - toward the window! - the beam began to move horizontally, with George riding manfully like a bug on a pin - on its far end! There were shouts and Herculean efforts by all. For an instant, the beam slowed and it seemed it might be retracted in its headlong push after all. But malevolently, it resumed its course. George, alone, struggled with superhuman strength to push back against that beam - but in the end, he lost and slowly, gracefully he was pushed back up against the bow window. From his new vantage point, he could look down three stories on either side to the rock pile below...

     This was not your average window, now. It was built - like everything else hereabouts - to last a 1000 years. It creaked and groaned - but for a long minute held. Panes exploded here and there. Sweat poured down George's face. Horror marked the collective visages of the "hands". Then like the burghers in MacCaulay's immortal "Lays of Ancient Rome" who cravenly fled brave Horatio's side as the bridge he was on fell into the Tiber - our crew with one mind, pressed ".... back! back! ..ere the ruin totter and fall...".

     And slowly and ever so gracefully George W. Rhine went ballistic that morning and shot out through his own bow window in a shower of glass three storeys up - not unlike the slow motion gyrations of a Bruce Willis in "Die Hard".

     There was not even time to wave goodbye as he plummeted from view. In one body, we descended the stairs and ran outside...