Our back porch is always a little strange, but it took on a special dimension today when Maria hung up some vintage hankies to dry before she turns them into scarves and Red hopped up along with the chickens. Our back porch is very strange, full of life, and we are not able to sit there as it has been taken over by barn cats, chickens dogs, hanging plants and Maria’s fiberworks.
The story of Bedlam Farm continues, for those of you who missed the news on Friday – we rejected a proposal to rent the farm for three years with an option to buy. We were disappointed and relieved, perhaps a bit shell-shocked by a strange week. And yes, it was an upsetting week. That’s about all I wish to say, We went from a good place to a bad place in a hurry, it was a steep fall, but it could have been a lot steeper.
Bedlam Farm is a famous place, it is a beautiful place in fine shape and we assumed, perhaps arrogantly, that lots of people would want to buy it quickly. It has a rich, pre-Civil War history, apart from a movie and seven books being born there. We were not correct. We have reduced the price by $100,000, and it isn’t going down any farther. The economy, the real estate market and the vagaries of life have their own ideas about what will happen to the farm and it is on the market again, both for rent and for sale.
Every time I mention it on the blog, people call Kristin Preble, our realtor (Preble Realty, 518 854-7888, [email protected]) to ask about the farm. People have all sorts of requests – more tilleable land, fewer barns, more barns, no barns, no hills, more hills, a smaller house, a newer house, a bigger barn door for a huge draft horse, a bathroom for each of the four kids, a house with different wallpaper in the pantry. When I mentioned the farm was on the market again, Kristin’s phone started ringing, it rings every time I mention it, I imagine she wants to strangle me by now, she she remains cheerful and efficient. We remain optimistic. We love the place, someone else will too.
The calls can be strange and Kristin runs them all by me. We are phone friends. The man from way upstate who wonders if he could rent it and store trucks and cars in the barns. No. The woman who wants to rent it if I will help her write a book about her dog. No. The person who wants to rent it and see where Orson is buried. No. The woman who wants to buy it on condition she can sleep on the floor with her dog for awhile to see if they both like it. No. The family that wanted to drive to the farm from Michigan to see it providing I was there to sign some books and brought Red and Lenore. No. The person who wants to rent it and turn it into a wildlife rescue center, with me as chairman of the board. No. The woman who wants to rent it if her dog can make the trip North from Florida to see it. No. The woman who wanted to make the farm into a dog therapy center providing she could build an attached garage. No. The man who wants to move to the country and do some sheep herding with his dogs. Maybe. The woman who wants rent it and turn it into a retreat and rescue facility for writers who are struggling and broke and who proposes selling shares of the farm to my readers and blog followers to pay the rent. No. The woman who wants to move her Alpaca farm to the farm and expand it. Maybe.
I dream sometimes of an investment banker who drives up her in his Beamer with his two scrubbed kids and buff wife and Clumber hunting dogs, gets out of his car and writes a check for cash for the property. He doesn’t care about the gutters, he is going to take the place apart anyway. True, he is an investment banker and I think investment bankers are raping the earth, but we are nothing if not flexible, and who are we to judge anybody?
We do have some serious prospects, more people are coming to look. I am not going any more on showings, it’s not good for me, I am turning on the idea of humanity, and last time, Kristin prevented me from leaping over the pasture fence and assaulting a man from Westchester who asked me why I was dumb enough to fix up all of the useless barns instead of knocking them down to open up the view a bit. I am sure I would have gotten my ass kicked, but I would have gotten a punch or two in before that happened.
I have to be honest, you cannot take yourself or life too seriously, you cannot lose your sense of humor, you can never stop laughing at life or yourself. (I showed this Maria but she never laughed once, and I said “why aren’t you laughing?,” and she said,
“oh, is this supposed to be funny?,” and left the room.)
So here we are, the saga continues. We are bloody but unbowed. My mantra is secure and unchanged. We are, perhaps, a bit warier than we used to be, but not wary. We are a bit more cynical, but not cynical. We are somewhat batte-scarred, but not hardened.I stand by my farm, our farm. It is a beautiful place with a wonderful old farmhouse in good shape, four restored barns, a beautiful view, a mystical screened-in porch and a mile-long path in the woods, all at quite good price. Some smart and lucky person or family will be very happy there. It is written.
Maria washed some of her vintage hankies and hung them on the back porch to dry, and it was beautiful watching them flap and blow in the summer breeze. She is making them for the September 1 Open House, you can see them on her website.
The donkeys love one new chore, the daily apple picking they do with Maria. Simon is especially happy to participate, encouraging Maria as she picks apples and hands them out to the donkeys, one by one. How many donkeys and people does it take to pick a few apples? See for yourself.
Sometimes I look up at our back porch, and I just stop and stare at it for awhile, it is so full of life, it has evolved so much, it is such a reflection of us and our lives and way of thinking. Today Maria put out some vintage hankies to dry – she washed them before designing them. Flo was sleeping on her chair, the chickens came around foraging and Red was waiting for instructions. Behind the chairs, the Tile Man’s tarp covers some plywood he will use for the bathroom floor and in the front, our garden is beginning, finally to fade. I love our porch, it is a living monument to our lives.
