One of my first lessons in my new life in the country more than a decade ago was about books and worms.

I was looking for things to hang on the walls of my sprawling farmhouse in West Hebron, N.Y., and I fell in love with two old wooden signs. Both were hand-painted in large but home-made letters.

I hung the “worms” sign out on the front porch of the house, and the “books” sign inside on the living room wall, they were both about 100 years old.

The day after I hung the worms sign, there was a knock on the door.

A fisherman on his way to a lake wanted to know how much the worms cost. He was unbelieving when I said I didn’t sell worms, I just loved the sign. I don’t think he believed me.

Neither did the other dozen or show people who showed up that day on my porch, interrupting my writing. I am fairly psychotic about my writing not being interrupted, I assumed it was a fluke.

But this happened every day of the week, usually more than once. It was not a fluke. Fishermen saw the worm sign and assumed I was selling worms. They were all puzzled and a little irritated that I wasn’t selling worms, and even worse, didn’t fish.

This actually got worse as the weather warms.

So I took the worms sign down and replaced it with my books sign. I have this sign hanging on our back porch to this day, we brought it from the other farm when we moved. I don’t know what happened to the worms sign, it disappeared soon after the move.

There are lessons here, but I’m not sure what they are. No one has ever in either farm stopped and asked me where they might find the books I was selling. Not one, ever.

As a book author, I found great meaning in this, a place were worms are considered a lot more important then books and the people who write them. This set the tone for my humbling in the country, and a growing respect for my own insignificance.

A  very good friend messaged me the other day and expressed wonder at how an “unknown writer on a farm” could be so involved in raising money for different things. I did laugh out loud and felt obliged to protest: but I’m a five time New York Times bestseller?

And you know what? Nobody cares, including me. Thanks to the worm and book signs, I am very happy with who I am, and prepared for the reality of my life.