I think every emotion known to mankind, has washed over me and through me, this past week. Joy, sorrow, excitement, dread, fear . . you name it . . .I have felt it. I have cried while hanging sheets on the line and moments later , felt gladness as I walked by the oldest barn. I have stood very still, in my thoughts and then rushed headlong in to the future, within minutes. . . .for, I have sold the farm.
Those of you that have a history with the rabbitpatch diary, will remember the “incident” a few years back. when the same thing happened . . .and then it didn’t. Circumstances changed and so I remained here on the beautiful, very old, remnants of a farm. In light of that, I know for sure, that anything can happen, but at this time, all indications are . . that I need to pack. . . and not put another thing in the freezer.
I am packing . . and haven’t any idea where I am going! It is a very odd notion to entertain, for my personality . . but here I am, today washing seashells, collected decades ago by five children, for they are going with me . . .wherever that is! I have not got as much to do, as I could. I spent a summer, decluttering the place, now two years ago. I have honored that decision ever since . . .with the exception of books. I must have given away a thousand books that year-many to the school and I supplied quite a bit to a library and made a donation to a used book store.I probably still have at least a few hundred, that I could not part with. Many are intended for the grandchildren and will be doled out in time. Until then . . . they are going with me, too. There is no way around it-moving from one place to another, is hard work. . . .but that is not what I have been crying about. It is the land.
Something happens as you tend to earth. It happens as you plant. It happens as you water what you planted. It happens as you cut thorned vines and pick up thousands of branches. It happens when you work in the hottest hours and it happens when you are caught in the rain. It happens when you clean up after a storm-and when you sit in the shade of an old tree. You find out where the doves are nesting and where the wild rabbit runs. You know where the evening star shines and where the first rays of morning light fall. When the earth feeds you . . well, you are grateful and probably hopelessly in love. . .even with the fields that you do not tend and who can claim the sky? Yet somehow, you feel like such things are your own too. This is what I cry about.
Then, too are the “precious memories”. As I traipse the territory, I have flashes of pictures, from days passed. I see Grandmama raking leaves and I have seen my daddy walking, looking for something to fix. I see my dear uncles, Randy and Speedy sitting on the porch and Aunt Carolyn, behind the barn causing a commotion of some sort. I see a dog, that I loved, faithfully guarding the place. I see a fine evening meal celebrating Will and Jennys’ engagement . . and the Christmas tree shining through the windows. I cry about all that too. If it weren’t for me getting older and that old barn falling down, and several windows about to fall out and that dreadful sun room . . .
The community doesn’t make it any easier, for I am convinced that some of the kindest and most noble people on the earth, live right here in Farm Life.
I met the buyers, a few days ago and I loved them right off. The wife and I took a stroll so, I could tell her about the flowers. She just admired everything. The husband was busy making a list of repairs. He wasn’t even scared of that old barn! The visit acted like a tonic on me. The rabbitpatch will be loved and saved by these folks and I will be cheering them on. Until further notice, I will be packing and seeking a place to rent.
I have never rented and now must learn that business. It seems that a lot of land lords do not like dogs nor cats. I will not bring it up that Christian is a musician, either . . .and what in the world is “renters’ insurance”? Please pray there s no “Home Owners Association” in my future, either, for I just can’t be but so civilized! In the meanwhile, I will continue packing and dreaming of a quaint cottage . . the next rabbitpatch is somewhere . . .after all.