Just when you think…

A few days ago, I was walking in our front field, looking around at all the possibilities that our farm held for us.  I was feeling decidedly pessimistic.  The list of possibilities went something like this:

The possibility of throwing my back out again while I was double-digging the gardens.

The possibility of another tomato blight.

The possibility of more “emergency” vet bills.

The possibility of more bee stings and hairy spiders, broken fences, roof repairs, slug infestations…

The possibility of another romp through the neighborhood chasing our escapee goats. (Let me re-phrase that.  The INEVITABILITY of another romp through the neighborhood chasing our escapee goats.)

I walked back into the house to open the mail.

There, in the pile, was a friendly letter from our town assessor’s office informing me that our taxes had just gone up nearly $1000 a year.

I’d had it.

When my husband got home from work, I informed him that I wanted to move. To Maine.  (Let me just preface this story with a fact that many of you may not know.  I’m a bit impetuous.  Patience and planning are not characteristics that most people would use to describe me.  I’m more of a shoot first, ask questions later type.)

Maine wasn’t a complete surprise to him, though.  We have always talked about moving there.  It’s one of three places that make us both truly, ecstatically happy.

I ranted on about the ridiculous taxes that we pay in our town, the hassle of keeping the property from “falling down around us” (I was feeling dramatic,) and the cost of all that upkeep.

He listened.  He nodded.  He did not respond.

I mentioned how, as a contractor, it was time he started thinking about his next move.  His body was getting worn out.  He was stiff and sore all the time and his elbow was deteriorating.  Over twenty – five years of hard labor takes its toll.

“Perhaps now is the time to get our ducks in line,” I continued.

He nodded again.  He was coming around.

“I’m on board with the possibility of selling this house.  Maybe.  It’s a bad market, though.  It might be better to wait.  However, if we do decide to sell, I’m not ready for Maine, yet.  Soon.  But not yet.”

That was fine with me.  A true compromise.

The next morning, I began looking at properties for sale.  Nothing really grabbed my attention, except for one home not far from ours.  It was decidedly smaller with only a quarter acre of land.  There would be no room for the goats or the sheep.  Our dogs would have to get used to much “cozier” digs.  Our daughters would revolt!  But, change is good.  The taxes were half of what we were paying.  I called the number on the computer – hoping to get some information before we got our agent involved.

The agent that answered listened to me describe the property.  He was silent.  Then he asked, very politely, how I got his number.  I told him his picture and number were on the listing on the website.

“I don’t understand,” he said.  “I’m up in Maine.”

Well, blow me down!!  It seemed that larger forces were conspiring around me.  It was A SIGN!!!!

We talked.  And talked.  I told him that we wouldn’t be making a move right away but that I’d be interested in keeping in touch.  Soon enough, we’d be needing his services.  I was sure of it.

Feeling calmer, I went to work, confident that the die had been cast.  Now, all I had to do was wait for the universe to take care of the rest.  Patience, my dear, I chanted to myself all afternoon.

Last night, when I got home, my husband was in our driveway with a friend of ours.  A wonderful man.  Older.  An “old school” Italian contractor who just so happens to share a love of food and all things outdoors with us.  We all got comfy in the backyard.

“Mrs. O’Leary,” he said, in his fabulous rustic accent.  “Would you be willing to breed your goats?  I will take the babies in the spring.  A six – week old milk fed kid is delicious.  In return, I will cook a dinner for the two of you that you won’t ever forget and show you how to make cheese with all the extra milk.”

“That’s a wonderful offer, but, we’ve just decided to move.  I won’t be able to breed anything anymore.”

“WHAT?!?  Are you crazy?!? You can not move in this market.  It is suicide.  Listen to me… I have been around a lot longer than you and I have stories to share…”

By the end of the hour, my husband’s feet were planted firmly in the “we’re not going anywhere” department.  What we heard made perfect sense.  The market was horrible, the land was beautiful.  We would regret giving it up.  Just a little more time and patience and all the hard work would pay off.  In my heart, I knew this was true.  I went back into the house and looked out onto the field.  It was glowing purple in the evening light.  The animals were snug in their stalls.  The fences were secure.  Our barefoot kids were running around, screaming and jumping and chasing the dogs.

The universe had spoken.

I turned to open the mail.  In it was a package from the agent in Maine.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. Nancy Tandon
    Sep 28, 2012 @ 15:24:05

    Ah, cunning universe. I will now start conspiring with her to keep you here. ; ) However, wherever life leads, I know you’ll bloom where you’re planted!

    Reply

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