My role on the farm has changed since I first moved here. In the six years I lived alone on the first Bedlam Farm, I had some help, but I was responsible for everything. Today, on the second Bedlam Farm, I am a kind of quartermaster, a link with the outside world, the connection to a small army of handypersons, plumbers, carpenters, and roofers to call in an emergency, or when the Post Office threatens to stop delivering mail because the mailbox is tilting and rotting.

(Above, Ethan came to dig a big hole.)

I was shocked to get this notice from the post office; for most of my life, there never was a free-standing mailbox; mail just came through a slot in the door or a small box in the wall of an apartment house lobby. Until I got the valid but slightly aggressive message from the post office, I never even looked at the mailbox except to notice it was leaning backward.

The post office message was detailed – the mailbox needed to be between 44 and 48 inches off the ground, straight up and down. In my quartermaster role, Maria and I will agree on the need for help beyond our ability; my job is to get it. Relationships with handypersons in the country can always be delicate. Many have several jobs, are overwhelmed some weeks, and are unemployed the next. It’s often hard to get calls returned or people to come when they say they will.

Many are always open to a better offer on any given day.

I am deadly on the phone, as Maria can testify. I guess it’s from my reporting years; I’m good at tracking, pinning, and getting the work done. Despite some close and ugly calls in the winter, I haven’t failed yet.

All kinds of people do handy work here: retired engineers and writers, veterans looking for work. Most don’t last too long and take off for greener pastures, but some perfect ones stick around and become expensive and busy. There is always something expensive we didn’t expect, and there are many trips back and forth to the hardware store for screws and nails we need and don’t have.

We are lucky to have found a helper, all-purpose plumber, carpenter, and handyperson in Mike Conklin. Mike is a landscaper who mows lawns but can do almost anything we ask him to do, from blocked drains to new mailboxes. He says he sees himself as the 911 for his customers. When you call him, he comes, and when he says he is coming, he does. He was buried in work today, so he asked his helper Ethan to come and start the work, and he showed up to finish it.

Doing these things in the country is different from doing these things in the city. Maria likes to do many of these repair chores – I don’t do any – and Mike comes in. For exceptional work like broken slates or construction, we have a range of people who call, some who return calls, some who never do, and some who eventually do.

My phone is stuffed with names of numbers, many of whom I called but couldn’t reach. When things go wrong up here, panic can set in easily. I’ve developed nerves of steel when the gong strikes. There is no 911 for a little farm out of town in the country.

I did run to the hardware store after Maria left for belly dancing and bought a spray can of black anti-rust paint. It’s sprayed; I’ll take a photo tomorrow. I believe it will make our postal carrier much happier. And the list of a thousand things we need to do just got one bit shorter.

People up here often change jobs and upgrade their workover to warmer climates. When I got the post office letter, I texted Mike and asked if he could dig up the old mailbox and put in a new one. He texted me back in seconds  – “sure, can.” That is allwas needed to know from Mike. He doesn’t need follow-ups.

I texted him yesterday, and he showed up today. I was the sixth person to ask for a new mailbox, and the post office was tearing up. Ethan came to get it started, and Mike showed up to help finish it. I hope Mike, who seems to love his work, stays here for the rest of his life.