I’m beginning an adventure. It’s not to some exotic, far-away place where the air is redolent with fragrant frangipani blossoms, with vistas of happy natives basking on the beach in the shadow of a hulking now-dormant volcano. Nothing nearly so Gauguin as all that.
It’s a farm. A sad, tired little farm with floppy pasture grass and rusty barbed wire, and a well cover that is just waiting for someone to fall through. Two barns with peeling paint, missing doors and 125 years worth of rubbish and used rubber tires. The farm house is over 250 years old, and sadly looks its age.
But it’s my farm.
The real estate closing is in a couple of weeks – 19 days, to be exact. As I sit at the desk in my windowless factory office, I can close my eyes and see the land. What land it is! It spreads out, down and across a wide meadow to touch up with a 350-acre nature preserve that then spreads out and across even further, with near limitless open sky and the sounds of happy birds and the chirrup of grasshoppers.
I can imagine it filled with the sounds and smells of my farm. Nickering goats and clucking hens and a few patient cows. And bees. Lots and lots of bees. I will sit on my porch in the waning light of a summer’s evening with the dogs at my feet and watch my bees fly home to their hives. And I will be happier than I’ve ever been.
This blog will be my story. It’s about a woman called to the land, and about the land that’s calling her. It’s about how lives and families repeat themselves, and experiences of days both gone by, and going forward.