Red and I went to Bedlam Farm today and while Maria got some things from the house, we went up to the Pole Barn, which was the focal point of animal life there. This was where the sheep and donkeys took shelter from the rain and the snow, it was Rose’s territory. It was where we lambed, where the sheep often got stuck in snow drifts, where I walked up to the top of the hill to Read St. Augustine and stare out at the valley. The Pole Barn was built halfway up the pasture hill, and it was, to me, the heart of the pasture. I learned to take my first photos there because the angle was good for shooting up with sky behind, as happened with Red here. This was where I brought Red on his first day, to see the sheep. When you want a border collie to bond with you, you bring him or her to sheep. That will do it. What a rich experience, what a beautiful place.
I often drive by this farm truck, at rest, proud and retired. His own cocoon of trees and brush as grown up behind him. Farm backyards are like this, resting places for magnificent trucks and cars that are never thrown away, just in case they offer up a spare part.
In Florence’s young world, life was difficult, but it was also fun. It is easy to see a different world, without cards, TV, cable, Internet, cell phones, computers. People connected with one another, formed powerful friendships, had a great sense of community and although they had little money, they had all sorts of inventive ways to have tremendous fun, even in the midst of back-breaking work and hard times. People talked to each other, not through machines. Florence’s journals make clear that our new devices are powerful, but they have taken a lot from us. It is interesting about Florence and her writing. She stated no opinions about politics, changing times, was not ever complaining or nostalgic. But her journals make clear how the felt about the changing world. Her own rich world had vanished.
“Mother belonged to a Larkin’s* club, the neighbors meeting about every two weeks. She would get credit for what was sold and earned prizes like lamps, stands, chairs, and smaller things. There were card party’s which was held at different homes. We always went along. One night we all went to Henry Coulter’s home on Scotch Hill. While folks played, the children raised H—-. We were going up the stairs and sliding down the open stair rail. Bus Coulter was so anxious to beat us that he ran up, jumped for the rail going over to the floor below. This knocked him out and scared us so no more rail sliding that night.
Other nights they had dances or kitchen hops. This was fun as I loved music. Dad would bundle us up, take a team on a sleigh and go over the mountains to a large house. This was near Dall Coulter’s home. I would take a nap all afternoon and stay awake all night. One night I sat on a mantle shelf and watched Matt Shields play the fiddle for the squares. That was the night Fayette, who was a sleep head, went to sleep on some coats in the hall. The hall was dark and others came and piled their heavy fur coats on top of him. He was nearly smothered before Mother found him. One day we were getting ready to go over for another dance when we received word the house was on fire. They had started the stove in the front room. The chimney caught fire. That was the last of a beautiful home. Burned to the ground.”
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* I researched the Larkin’s Club reference. John D. Larkin began a modest soap factory in Buffalo, N.Y., in 1875 and marketed two products: Sweet Home Soap, a yellow laundry soap, and Creme Oatmeal, a toilet soap. He began experimenting with the “Larkin Idea,” door-to-door sales to private residences using neighbors and friends. As part of the “Larkin Idea,” the company inserted a color picture with the company’s logo into every box of soap and customers could join his “club.” His tactic of offering a gift directly to customers was a revolutionary approach at the time. By the 1890’s Larkin’s notion of “premiums” – now commonplace – was an integral part of his operation. Salespeople like Florence’s mother received a commission on sales. – jk
For me, nostalgia is a trap, the past a hollow echo. It is important to know where I come from, who I am. But the past always seems easier and better, because it is what we know, and the future is less certain. On Bedlam Farm, I awakened to life, deepened as a writer, nearly perished as a human being. The New Bedlam Farm is very different. I am more connected to the world, more responsible for my life, more peaceful and confident. I don’t need blizzards and dramas and cows and goats and tractors and chaos and pandemonium to live my life and draw readers to my work. I know it is entertaining, I know many people love it, but it is not authentic to me, not genuine. Life is chaotic enough on its own.
I am growing confident enough about myself and my work to simply be thoughtful about myself and my life, and that will find its own authentic and genuine audience.
Still, Bedlam Farm is such a beautiful place and was so beautiful for me. Sitting at the top of the hill reading, herding the sheep with Rose, burying Orson, listening to the hawks cream overhead. I am always emotional when I go there, it is a place filled with emotion and rich experience. I came to life there, and so did Maria, and we came together there, and there is no experience in my life richer or more powerful than that.
Went back to Bedlam Farm this morning to check on our beautiful farm and pick up some things. Red and I visited the stone wall behind the farmhouse, a gorgeous thing, the kind of thing I would never do now, but was obsessed with doing then. And it is a beautiful thing, marking the space between the farmhouse and the pasture hill. A graceful stone wall. It is emotional, going to Bedlam Farm, I have so many rich memories there – Maria and I were reborn there, Rose in the pasture, Izzy in the garden, walks on the path, the donkeys on the hill, lambing, Elvis. These memories rise up in me when I am there and it is overwhelming.
I took some photos with Red around the farm, and I’ll put a few up as a photo album on Facebook. It is something of a mystery to me why the farm – which has been for sale for a year – has not yet sold. I believe it is waiting for the right person. I believe they are on the way. When I got there, I stand on the porch and look out over the valley and think how fortunate I was to live there and write so many books there and take so many photos there. Of all the people who came to look at the farm that I met, only one seemed to get it and love it, and be the right match for it. She almost bought it, but wasn’t quite ready to make a move.
But Spring is coming, and so is the farm’s true owner. Life is wondrous, crisis and mystery are just around the corner. I’ll put the other photos up later.
