We headed back to Hebron and Bedlam Farm Friday night and we’ll be back for much of the weekend. We are replacing some of the wallpaper in the downstairs pantry that is peeling a bit in all of the humidity. The farm is the Queen, her magisterial and splendid self, sitting patiently in waiting for the family that will want to buy it and live in it. There is no one in the world who thought the farm – priced to sell awhile ago – would still be on the market after a year-and-a-half. But that is the fascinating thing about life, it doesn’t really care what most people think or say. It moves on its own course and in it’s own way.

Bedlam Farm and I have not let go of one another, I can feel it. When I pull up the hill and see the beautiful old farmhouse sitting there so regally surrounded by the four red barns and astride this wonderful view my heart flips a few times, I feel a wave of emotion, every single time, so much happened to me there, and to Maria as well. Back to spraying warm water with fabric softener, back to scoring and scraping, Red off in a corner of the living room sleeping and waiting.

The skies were angry, black and yellow and moving fast, the sun bobbing in and out, an orchestra with all of the percussion drums going at once. We will be back tomorrow, in this beautiful and graceful place, I think of the books I wrote there, the photos, meeting Maria, Rose and the storms, Orson buried up on the hill, Izzy in the garden. How could I not feel a wave of emotion when I go there, it will not stop  until the farm has an owner who loves it as I did, as we did. I feel the farm gripping me, and me gripping back. They are coming, it whispers to me, they are coming, in 200 years they have always come. Get on with your good life.