Maria’s New Studio Barn: New Bedlam Farm
As nearly as I can remember, this was my first auction, surely the first one at which I bid on anything. I kept thinking all day, “what is a life?” Can you see it here, is it on display. I had a lot of different feelings about the auction as the day went on, the striking background sing-song of Ron Seifert, the murmurs and commentary of the large crowd. There were many different kinds of people at the auction. The pros and veterans, almost frantically scanning the furniture and glassware, their professional eyes focused, almost cold, rude, pushy. There was something almost predatory about them, they rushed into every nook and cranny looking for anything valuable, hidden or withheld. The auction workers told me they could be frightening.
Then there were the many people who knew and loved Florence, and they wanted a piece of her, something to remember her bye. And then the locals, many of whom love auctions, bringing their families, their chairs, beer and soda, sandwiches, not really there to buy or bid but mostly to see this very compelling scene – a life in bits and pieces, brought out to the world to be scattered to the wind forever. I can’t say how Florence would have felt – I didn’t know her that well. I suspected she would have wanted her good and fine things to be loved and go out into other homes and families. She had collected things all her life, and her granddaughter told me she loved to go to auctions and pick up horse trinkets and her blue glass. Auctions are an old and beloved tradition in the country, surely as warm and humane as selling to dealers.
I felt protective of the house. It isn’t mine yet, but I was uneasy at the hundreds of people poring through every room. It did feel invasive to me – not the selling so much as the evolution of this private dream home into a frantic and crowded public space, people streaming through. The auction people were wonderful, to me and Maria and to everybody else. Maria finally got to see the inside of her Studio, and she loved it. It will be perfect for her, important given how much she loves her Studio Barn. This will make this place hers as well.
I got my number – 226. There was only one thing I was determined to get, one of Florence’s old blue kerosene lamps, electrified. Quite beautiful. I got several, in fact, the one I wanted for $120. That was all I really wanted of Florence’s – a blue lamp to keep her presence burning. And a painting from a member of her family. When all was said and done, this was a life I saw being carted out in front of me, and I didn’t really feel easy getting much more of it.
Many people asked me if I was nervous or uneasy about getting to this place, about selling the farm. I am not. Like a lot of curious people, I am generally afraid of things that are not especially frightening. The really scary things – moving to a farm in my 50’s, buying a house before selling mine, upending my life at 60 – do not frighten me much. I am a follower of Henry David Thoreau and Winston Churchill. A live lived in fear is unbearable to me. I will not lead a small life.
Failure and defeat are not options. It is our destiny, mine and Maria’s, to be in that house, just as it was my destiny to come to Bedlam Farm. And meet the love of my life there. We were meant to be in that house. We will be. It is really as simple as that, truly, and we cannot wait to get there and share this new chapter. The rest is just background noise.
When I saw Maria look up in her new studio – cluttered with junk and debris – and saw her light up, I began to cry, to tear up. “What’s wrong,” she said, concerned. “Nothing, nothing. Just seeing you love it so much.” I felt the same way about the parlour, where people were laid out on farms when they died. I will write there.
This is the way I see it. Some things in life just need to happen, are meant to happen. And they will happen. Those things are often beyond my rather puny ability to shape or determine. I am not sure what exactly, but I know I am part of something larger than myself, and I trust that. This is the Leap Of Faith. That was Florence’s life on this day, and mine. Godspeed to her and her beautiful things.