Too Much Good

We have nothing but time on our hands. It’s an odd predicament after owning a farm the past 14 years. We aren’t accustomed to this kind of idleness and since we’re still waiting to move into our new house (T minus three weeks and counting), the situation can sometimes be a little vexing, particularly for Former Farmer John. Without a farm to work or a garden to putter around in, unless we make some sort of plans otherwise, he tends to mostly wander the house with a pained expression on his face.

The happy consequence of our current dilemma is that it has forced us to explore. While we would have checked out the local attractions regardless of our housing situation, doing so wouldn’t have held the same urgency if we’d been busying ourselves with the chore of unpacking. As impatient as we are to move to the new house, at least we’ve had more opportunity to experience some of the beauty this area has to offer.

And oh my, it offers a lot.

After hiking through some truly lovely state parks nearby, we’ve recently branched out a tad farther, both to the Olympic National Forest (one hour away) and the Olympic National Park (an hour-and-a-half). It sometimes seems as if each hike is more astounding than the next, until we look back on a prior adventure and recall how it took our breaths away, as well. It’s a bit overwhelming. In fact, during our latest hike along Lake Crescent in the Olympic National Park, after we’d begun our ritual oohing and aahing over the magnificence of it all, John declared he almost couldn’t stand any more beauty. He claimed he needed something to ground him, to bring him back to reality.

“I think I need to go visit a landfill,” he sighed.

Soon after, we rounded a bend leading to a clearing with a foot bridge connecting either side of the trail. It was plenty enough to make John forget what he’d just said. Rather than complain about too much grandeur, he snapped a picture instead.

As difficult as it was to leave that spot, we continued on for a while until we felt it prudent to turn around and trek back to the car. When we once again encountered this bridge, we were alarmed to come upon two empty beer cans — one floating in the water out of arm’s reach, the other wedged against the metal railing. John picked that one up, crushed it and stowed it in our cooler bag.

We were horrified. And adding insult to injury was the brand of beer: Coors Light. No personal affront to any Coors Light fans out there, but c’mon, really? The Pacific Northwest is famous for its craft beers. (Not that two discarded empty bottles of Elysian would have been any better, but still.) Then to make matters worse, a few more paces past the bridge I spotted a smoldering cigarette butt.

The grisly discovery of these items was John’s landfill, of course.

He quickly realized he hadn’t wanted to see something so ugly after all. And although we never ran across the perpetrators of this heinous crime against nature (apparently they walked only far enough to down their beers at the bridge and casually toss aside the remains before turning back), I despised them more and more as John and I trudged back to the trailhead. I have a tenuous relationship with my overall opinion of mankind as it is. This event just about put me over the edge for good.

Fortunately, the Rhody Festival was right around the corner. Rhododendrons are the Washington state flower, and right now they’re at their peak. We stopped at a nursery specializing in Rhody varieties not long ago and John was kind enough to model with one of my faves.

It’s no wonder Port Townsend devotes an entire week to honoring the flower. The first event we attended was the Pet Parade,

after which we wandered down to Memorial Field for opening day of the Funtastic Carnival.

Later that evening, the server at our favorite restaurant confessed that she doesn’t bother with this carnival. Too small for her taste. (“It’s not nearly as nice as the one in Puyallup!”) We found it adorable, however. From the smattering of rides to the barkers coaxing people over to a handful of games with chintzy stuffed animal prizes, it was so reminiscent of the small-town carnivals we’d each grown up with. Ditto the four pre-teen boys bopping each other with giant inflatable sledgehammers while stealing furtive glances at a group of middle school girls standing close by, worrying over their hair and outfits.

The culmination of the festivities was Saturday afternoon’s Rhody Parade. John, along with hundreds of others, had set up a couple chairs on the sidewalk earlier that morning to hold our spot. Once seated for the procession, we weren’t disappointed. For almost two hours, we were treated to multiple high school marching bands, as well as the Shiners, classic cars, bicyclists, acrobats, bagpipe players in full Scottish regalia and, of course, the floats, beginning with the one carrying this year’s Rhody Queen and her Court.

Even the Port Townsend steam punks made their way down the parade route.

And as if that wasn’t sufficient celebration for one day, immediately following the parade was the free Cake Picnic down by the waterfront.

They’d made enough cake to treat 1600 hundred people to a slice. One of the local farms donated 300 eggs for the event, which also included a volunteer DJ who played music for the crowd. Almost everyone was dancing.

Imagine someone coming up with the idea: “What can we do as an after-party once the parade is finished?”

“How about giving everybody free cake?”

Cake. I thought it was brilliant and charming and wonderful. Pretty tasty, too.

As we walked home, we spotted the bagpipe band playing some tunes at a street corner. I have to admit it: I love bagpipes. We crossed over to listen, and stood transfixed.

They ended their free impromptu concert with a beautiful rendition of Amazing Grace, a song when performed with bagpipes nearly always brings a tear to my eye. It was no different that evening.

Maybe most of mankind isn’t so bad after all.

Decisions, Decisions

Moving abruptly brings with it a conundrum: how to decide where to settle, and how to decide fast. When we put the farm up for sale, we thought we’d have all sorts of time to figure that out. Before our place was officially listed on the MLS, I spent a good many hours at the computer reading travel forums via the google in an attempt to narrow down our choices. Still, that’s no substitute for visiting in person. We knew as much, and luckily had amassed plenty of frequent flyer miles, enough for multiple trips to the Pacific Northwest to scope it out (as we kissed goodbye our plan to vacation in Paris, ooh la la boohoo).

Well, as I’ve pointed out before, it didn’t quite work that way. Prior to moving all our worldly goods — and ourselves — to Port Townsend at the end of March, we had visited this town only once, and only for one day. During our sole pre-relocation trip to Washington back in January, we spent more time on both Whidbey Island and Orcas Island than we did here. Yet this is where we landed once all was said and done.

So it did seem as if we should maybe double-check that we’d made the right choice. Obviously we didn’t question our judgment too terribly much, considering the fact we’ve now become Port Townsend homeowners a mere month after our arrival…yet we recognized that looking at some other towns in the area before signing on the dotted line was probably prudent. At least that’s what we assumed less impulsive folks might do.

We had ruled out the neighboring city of Sequim almost immediately upon driving into the town in January. While we were there, however, we discovered a bicycle route that runs west to Port Angeles. The Sequim area appears pretty flat, music to my ears when it comes to bike rides — I’m not a fan of peddling uphill — so we decided to give the trail a shot shortly after we moved to Washington, both for exercise and as a fact-finding mission to see what Port Angeles is all about.

To make a long story not quite as long as it could be, in attempting that bike ride we found the landscape between Sequim and Port Angeles to be anything but flat. It’s the opposite of flat, actually, and proved too arduous a ride for me, the delicate flower. John, being the sport that he is (and simply wanting to get in a bike ride that afternoon come hell or high water) suggested we pile the bicycles back into the truck and drive to Port Angeles, where we happened upon a perfectly flat, wide, paved trail.

Port Angeles was beginning to look pretty darned good.

The trail took us past a marina and out along a narrow spit in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Because the city is west of Port Townsend, the views of the Olympic Mountains are decidedly more dramatic,

yet admiring them was made a tad difficult with the industrial buildings (and gigantic Chinese container ship) in the foreground. And while the trail was indeed usually adjacent to water, we couldn’t help but think they were glamming it up a bit by naming it the “Waterfront Trail.”

Especially the section that runs directly through the middle of an enormous paper mill.

And when I say through the middle, I mean through the middle.

Even the lovely little stands of tulips on the other side of the mill are deceiving. As long as you stay bent over for a closeup look, it’s charming.

But straighten back up, and you’re face-to-face with a rusty old pipe that runs the length of most of that section of trail.

Our subsequent bike ride through areas of Port Townsend proved more pleasant. (More hilly, too, much to the distress of a certain delicate flower.) At the apex of our ride, after delighting in the delicate beauty of various clusters of flowers,

the view when standing back up was the opposite of a rusty pipe.

Now, I realize I’m probably being kind of unfair. I’m sure there are pretty places in Port Angeles, as well. We sure didn’t see them when we were there, though, and we know Port Townsend abounds in them.

Honestly, I personally haven’t felt much of an urge to verify our choice of a new home town. Our first full day in this city basically cemented the decision for me. I’d already spent one night here before John arrived in the truck, and shortly after greeting him when he pulled up in front of the rental house, I went inside to throw some leftover pizza in the oven for lunch. When I stepped back out, John was talking to an elderly lady who was walking her dog.

At a break in their conversation she looked at me, then turned back to John and said, “So this must be your child bride!”

I grinned — broadly — as John stuttered and stammered. To help the poor guy out (after all, he’d just made a 40+ hour drive up here) I clarified, “Yes, I am. I’m six months younger than he is.”

The woman seemed satisfied, even vindicated with my answer. As John continued to sputter, she went on to explain to him how she’d come to her conclusion. She put her hands up to her cheeks and while gently patting them said, “Your wife’s face is like this…but your face is more like mine.”

I mean, really, why would I want to live anyplace else?

Wham Bam

At the closing on the sale of our farm, once all the signatures were in place and initials were scribbled and dates were filled in, the couple who bought the place turned to each other and with a hearty “Woohoo!” slapped their hands together in a gleeful high five.

I turned my face away to hide the tears.

It’s not that I wasn’t happy for the new owners — and for John and myself — but you know, we’d built that farm out of nothing. There was no way it wasn’t going to be emotional. Heck, even the eyes of our real estate broker Bob welled up a little. Although the sale of the farm happened in record speed, we developed such a nice relationship with Bob. By the end of it, we’d become friends. Meeting together at the title company to finalize the sale was a cathartic release, for all of us.

Turns out it doesn’t work that way in Washington. Rather than the sellers, buyers and their respective real estate professionals gathering around a conference table to close the deal together, each party meets with the escrow agent separately to sign papers. When John and I went to the title company late last week to close on the home we’re buying here, the seller was nowhere to be seen. She’d already signed her documents earlier that morning.

Talk about anti-climactic. The entire process took less than 10 minutes: Sign here, sign there, thank you, goodbye. We knew beforehand it would happen this way. Our real estate agent — who also was not at the closing — had given us the rundown. Still, when John and I walked out of the title company’s office, we were a little discombobulated.

“I guess we just bought a house,” John muttered as we climbed back into the car.

To make the experience even more surreal, we can’t begin moving into our new home until June. Our purchase of this house happened just as quickly as the sale of our farm and the seller needed more time to find a place to live in Seattle, where she’s moving. As part of the contract, we’re leasing the house back to her for a few weeks.

I shouldn’t complain. When John and I sold the home we owned prior to the farm, we also requested a leaseback while the construction of our new house was being completed. It didn’t occur to me then how eager the people who’d bought the house probably were to move into it. I know now.

Yet I wonder if they were itching to get in as much as we are. Thing is, the rental house where John and I have been living since we moved to Washington is, well, not exactly what we’d choose. It’s dark. The appliances are circa 1983. It’s cramped. We’ve stuffed the garage full to the rafters with boxes, and both downstairs living areas are barely passable because of all the furniture crammed into them.

I still shouldn’t complain. But seeing as that hasn’t stopped me yet….

While we’re now the proud owners of a home with a bright, open floor plan (furnished with the previous owner’s things for the time being),

at the rental house we’re living elbow-to-elbow.

It’s a good thing we like each other. And at least the rental is well located. We’re within walking distance of both downtown and uptown (yes, this little burg has both!), as well as the wonderful farmers market, the food co-op, the bank, two parks and more. Plus, we were able to lease this place on a month-to-month basis, meaning when we do finally move out it’ll be a clean break. So really, we’ve been pretty darned lucky.

(How’s that for looking at the bright side and taking the high road? Convincing? I hope so. I’m counting on it to offset my otherwise incessant whining.)

It wasn’t until after the closing (which provided no closure) that we finally had the opportunity to meet the seller. We’d arranged to spend an afternoon at the house to go over specifics like how the radiant heaters work, when to have the wood stove cleaned, how to fill the water softener and so on.

I’ll admit to being a little on edge as we pulled into the driveway. We and the seller had been held apart by the real estate agents until that time as if we were enemy combatants, making it difficult to think of the previous owner as anything other than a business deal. Happily, the woman who met us at the door was a warm, welcoming human being who John and I both genuinely liked. Heck, by the time we left that evening, I couldn’t help but give her a hug.

And you know what’s best of all? Not long after we’d begun talking, she said she suspected we’d like to start coming to the house right away to begin work in the garden. I swear John’s face glowed. He’d forewarned me that he planned to ask her if he could do just that. Heck, back when we met the inspector at the house shortly after signing the initial contract, before the non-closure closing, John had scoped out where he wants his greenhouse.

So with the promise of digging in the dirt and planning that greenhouse, it appears all is well. The waiting game won’t be nearly as onerous as we’d imagined. Woohoos! all around. And a hearty high five.

Come on Out, the Weather’s Fine

So many dire warnings before we left Texas:

“You’re moving where?? You know it rains all the time in the Northwest, don’t you?”

“Washington, huh? Hope you like rain!”

“Oh, I’ve heard it’s pretty up there, but I wouldn’t be able to handle all that rain.”

“Sure, summers are nice; otherwise it’s always raining.”

Since we’ve been here in Washington, less rain has fallen than it has back in Austin. And the thing is, that trend will likely continue. See, Port Townsend is in the “rain shadow” of the Olympic Mountains. Average annual rainfall: about 19 inches.

This is what a rain shadow looks like from above:

Well, okay, it probably doesn’t look exactly like that. I’ve only ever flown to Seattle in the dark, but I doubt there are purple outlines and orange arrows up there even in the daytime. Still, imagine yourself waking from a nap on the plane only to open the window shade to see this. It’d be almost as alarming as that Twilight Zone episode with William Shatner.

Although we’ve seen the sun far more often than not during our tenure as Pacific Northwest residents, we’re not letting it lull us into a false notion of reality. We’re well aware that over the year as a whole, while we won’t get a lot of rainfall, clouds and gray skies will prevail. Even self-proclaimed “Sunny Sequim,” the nearby town that boasts its rain shadow locale more than any of the others, has been overcast two out of three times we’ve passed through it.

I mean, c’mon, it’s time for them to face facts. How sunny can it be and still grow moss on the Chamber of Commerce asphalt parking lot?

You know the hole in the clouds in the previous satellite image, where the orange arrows are pointing? We’ve witnessed this effect from ground level many times already. Often it’s overcast in the early morning — “early” meaning 7 to 8 a.m. in temporarily-retiredspeak — after which the sun breaks through and the clouds form a circle around Port Townsend, like a big donut. (Oh all right…probably around Sequim too, the braggart.) On those days, even with beautiful views of the water, clouds obscure the Olympic Mountains to the southwest and the Cascades to the east.

It’s a different story on perfectly clear days, like our first visit to lovely Chetzemoka Park when I was able to snap a clandestine GQ picture of John with Mount Rainier looking on.

By the way, according to the explanatory placard, the park was named for a Native American who was proclaimed a hero by European pioneers for warning them when his tribe was planning an ambush. “So he was a spy!” I exclaimed.

I guess it’s a matter of perspective.

We get a different view of the Cascades — one with Mount Baker hogging most of the attention — on our stroll into the downtown area,

unless the clouds are donutting. In that case, we see this:

The Olympic Mountains play a similar game of hide and seek. The day John arrived at the rental house in Port Townsend, the Olympics made for an impressive welcome wagon.

We can supposedly see these mountains from the house we’re getting ready to buy, as well, yet on all three visits to our soon-to-be home the donut remained stubbornly in place.

(Don’t get me wrong, however. I’m not complaining about our future view.)

Now, I’m not claiming to understand the rain shadow phenomenon from a scientific standpoint. I’m no scientist. Or climatologist. Or ist of any sort who’d be able to stay awake for the entire meteorological explanation. All I know is the weather patterns in this area are downright goofy. Take, for example, a graphic from one of the local news station’s radar showing wind speeds and directions.

I mean, really, who can make sense of that? John and I used to be forecast junkies, noting the nuances of each approaching front, able to almost predict the weather ourselves (at least as well as the people paid to do it on TV). But we don’t see it happening here. And while that’s not enough reason to make us want to relocate again, it will certainly crimp our style come each evening’s local newscast.

Of all the grievous warnings we received back in Texas, not one person mentioned we’d be moving to a place with so many crazy arrows.

My Travel Companion

Talk about a whirlwind. Two weeks after we’d put the farm on the market, we had a contract in hand for the full asking price. Less than a month later, as the moving van company was emptying our house, John headed down the driveway for the last time.

Behind the truck he pulled our Prius, both vehicles packed to the brim and facing a long journey ahead.

I stayed behind and watched as the interior of our home of 14-1/2 years was transformed from this,

into this.

It was more than a little disconcerting. St. Joseph and his Altoids agreed, looking a tad discombobulated themselves after having been freed from the kitchen drawer where I’d kept them tucked away throughout the various inspections and land surveys, just to be safe.

I couldn’t concern myself with St. Joe’s state of mind, however. I had someone else to worry about, someone who had lived in that house nearly his entire life and not only had rarely traveled in a vehicle of any sort, but whose heart generally filled with fear at the prospect of venturing much farther than the front porch step, even on foot.

Even on four of them.

And he and I had tickets to fly to Seattle the following afternoon.

Several days earlier, John and I made a practice run at sneaking a kitty downer into Pablo the cat’s cooked chicken treat, an experiment that went swimmingly. Although I was nervous the morning of the real thing, I felt like I’d be able to recreate the deception once again. Pablo thought otherwise and detected the pill immediately. After multiple attempts — and after ultimately being left with only spitty bits and pieces of a formerly intact pill — I finally was able to force the remnants down his throat, sans chicken, despite some very vocal objections.

Stuffing him into the travel bag a couple hours later wasn’t pleasant, and he did raise a little ruckus as Dana and Alison drove us to the airport, but once inside the terminal it appeared the pill pieces had done their job. Pablo was awake yet calm inside his tiny carrier, where he acted as my second item of carry-on luggage.

When John and I travel together, we always take a picture of each other in the airport. It’s a matter of superstition for us, like the old tattered red travel bag I insist on carrying when we fly. Were we to forget that bag, or neglect the photos, the chances of arriving safely at our destination would surely decrease exponentially. The day of Pablo’s and my flight to Seattle, I did indeed have the red bag so the only missing link was the mutual photos. As we sat in the waiting area for our gate, I took care of my end of the deal.

I figured in this instance, it would have to suffice. Pablo was far too drugged up to snap my picture, as well.

Once on the plane, Pablo mostly traveled like a champ. I had to cram him under the seat in front of me, of course, where he dozed peacefully the first 3-1/4 hours of the 4 hour flight. Those final 45 minutes were no picnic, though. Pablo decided he’d had enough of that tiny carrier and started yelling and clawing at the sides. I put him on my lap and allowed him to stick his head out of the bag where I could try to talk some sense into him, yet he wasn’t falling for it. Having no idea at the time how close we were to landing, I began to panic too.

Thank heavens for enough frequent flyer miles for First Class seating. Upon seeing a kitty in distress, one of the attendants whispered in my ear for Pablo and me to follow her up to the galley where she closed the curtain so I could sit on the floor and take him out of that godforsaken bag. After holding him on my lap for a while, he settled back down.

As a friend used to say, there’s no class like First Class.

That Saturday night, Pablo and I stayed at the Best Western near SeaTac Airport. We’d arrived too late to drive to Port Townsend and I feared another panic attack overnight — whether by Pablo or me was anyone’s guess — which happily didn’t occur. Pablo was quiet as a mouse all night long. (Please don’t tell him I used that analogy.)

We pulled into downtown Port Townsend around noon Sunday. After parking the car along the street and double-checking on Pablo inside his carrier on the passenger seat, I met with the real estate agent to pick up the keys to our rental house. Port Townsend’s Victorian Festival was going on that weekend, and as I was walking back to the car I noticed a woman dressed from head to toe in garb befitting that era. She was heading straight towards me, grinning from ear to ear.

Any other day I would have welcomed a stranger’s smile — even a stranger pretending to live in a different century — but after the emotionally-draining ordeal of pulling up stakes and flying with a cat in tow to a place I’d only once briefly visited, my first thought was, “Please leave me alone.” Besides, Pablo was waiting in the car. All I wanted to do was let the poor little guy out of that bag.

Instead, I smiled back at her as she asked me if I’d like a $5 gift certificate for the Quimper Mercantile. “Sure, thanks,” I replied, and hurried back to my cat.

Once at the rental house, I discovered the bed the owner left for us had no linens or blankets on it — and John wouldn’t be arriving with our bedding until late the next day.

There are no big box stores in charming Port Townsend. The nearest Target or Bed Bath & Beyond is at least 50 minutes away, and I simply couldn’t muster the wherewithal to make that trip. I pulled the gift certificate out of my pocket and headed to the Mercantile instead, where I found a perfectly good sleeping bag. For $5 off list price to boot, thanks to my Victorian coupon.

Pablo and I slept like babies that night, cuddled inside the sleeping bag atop a bare bed. John arrived Monday, right on schedule, after which the bag was tossed to the floor in favor of real sheets and blankets. Pablo couldn’t have been more pleased.

I think we’re all going to like it here.

A Little Help from St. Joseph

When our friend Roxie — a former Austin farm stand customer who now lives in Washington state — found out John and I were attempting to sell our farm in order to move up there, she and her husband Kim emailed us a load of valuable information. That, of course, opened the floodgates for me to pester them relentlessly with additional questions, the answers to which were always graciously forthcoming. They’re fine folks.

Roxie even went so far as to offer me her plastic statue of St. Joseph.

This photo is a reenactment from the Amazon.com site, not her actual statue. While I appreciated the gesture, I saw no need for her to put the thing in the mail. I didn’t know we’d soon be visiting her in person.

You know what a St. Joseph statue is supposed to do, right? If you’re trying to sell your home, you bury the little Saint in the ground — upside down — facing your house and he gets you a buyer. According to legend (and the internet) this tradition goes back to what is called ‘the degradation of the saints.’ They threatened the saints by burying them while saying, “I will keep you with your head down in the dirt until you sell my house for me.”

Seems to me that wouldn’t make ol’ St. Joe all that fond of you. It might in fact cause him to be a little cranky and less eager to assist, which is probably why in more recent history the part about threats has changed instead to praying to Joseph’s good will for help with a fast, smooth and profitable sale. You know what they say: you catch more flies with honey.

As it happened, when John and I traveled to Washington at the end of January we did get the opportunity to visit Roxie and Kim. We spent a lovely day with them as we toured their corner of that beautiful state, and ended up at their home overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca. While there, Roxie brought out her St. Joseph statue for us.

Despite our good intentions, we didn’t bury the statue immediately upon our return. I left it out on the counter as a reminder for a short while, but when people started coming to look at the house I tucked it in a drawer, out of sight from any potential buyers.

I mean, we didn’t know any of these people. A particularly pragmatic couple might have noticed the little statue and thought we were superstitious weirdos. It’s best to keep things as nondescript as possible when selling a home anyway. Already, our real estate broker had told us to take down any knick-knacks, family photos, etc., that might distract the buyer. We wanted people to see it as their house, not ours.

Poor St. Joseph remained sequestered in that drawer through four or five house showings. (Though I can’t imagine he was wishing he was buried upside down instead.) Every time I reached for an Altoid, I was reminded of him. And every time, I’d close the drawer and promise myself we’d perform a decent burial soon. Very soon.

Then we were presented with a contract. A young family who have been searching for a farm for nearly a year loved this place. They even wanted to keep it as Angel Valley Farm, which thrilled us to no end. After only minor negotiations, we accepted their offer. St. Joseph had been drawer-bound barely over two weeks.

This brings up what I see as an extremely valid query: Is it truly necessary to bury the poor fella in the dirt — upside down, at that — in order for him to want to help with the house sale? Or could it be that he was so enjoying his cozy gig in the Altoids drawer that he expedited the sale process to avoid entombment?

I’m wondering, too, whether the number of Altoids left inside the tin made a difference.

When we signed off on the contract, there were nine.

We still have the house inspection results to agree upon, a flood zone survey to complete and a septic tank inspection to pass. We’re optimistic about all those things, but until they’re behind us, we won’t know for sure that the sale will go as scheduled.

To be safe, I’m not changing the number of Altoids in that tin. Until we sign on the dotted line at the title company, we’ll simply have to forego minty fresh breath. It seems a small sacrifice (and our apologies in advance to anyone who gets too close).

There’s nothing weird or superstitious about that, right?

Highs and Lows

Not many things scare me, with the exception of…

Hoo hoo! That’s rich. Sorry, but I’m so lying, I simply can’t go on. I thought maybe I could pull it off, but no. As anyone who’s been around me much can attest, I’m afraid of just about everything. One of my birthday presents earlier this year from Dana was a journal entitled “I’m Going to Die,” where I could record various symptoms and scenarios that will surely kill me. It was the perfect gift.

My greatest fear — which was originally the only one I’d planned to admit here — is heights. When I was a child, my father had to carry me up and down stairs. To this day, I’m unable to step onto an escalator without John’s arm wrapped around my waist. And that’s only as a last resort. I’ll first search high and low for the elevator, no matter how inconvenient. (I’m fun to travel with.)

Don’t even talk to me about ladders. I mean, I’ll go up on them, just not very far. And considering I’m the primary housepainter in the family, that can be a bit of a problem. In preparation for showing our house to prospective buyers, a carpenter replaced some weathered boards which subsequently needed paint. Most of them were down low within my comfort zone, yet I did reach an impasse with the wall into which John had bashed the front-end loader of his tractor a few years ago.

Research on tractor accidents is pretty conclusive: 50% of all farm fatalities involve tractors, according to my internet search. I’m unable, however, to find statistics on what percentage of exterior wall damage to farmhouses is due to tractor mishaps. Weird.

Immediately after John’s little tractor oopsy, he patched the resulting hole with a short length of exterior siding which I, of course, painted. The repair job stuck out like a sore thumb. A sore thumb covered up with a bright blue bandaid. But like everything one gets used to, it became invisible to us — until we started looking at the house through the eyes of a potential buyer.

We had the carpenter replace the lower two boards of that elevation of the house and after I painted them, the repair was even more glaring than before. The rest of the wall had faded over 14 years, making these freshly painted boards stick out like a…well, you know. Consequently, we decided the entire wall had to be re-blued, to match.

I took it as far — read: as high — as I could. John finished the tippy-top portion for me.

Were it not for the fact that we’re recently semi-retired, he might have never found the time to do this. While in the past, I could indeed squeeze in projects outside the realm of farming during the month of February, John could not. But now that we’re growing only for a couple restaurants — “miniature farming,” I’m calling it — spring planting isn’t all-consuming like it once was.

In fact, it’s verging on comical. For instance, earlier this week it was time to start what we’ve always referred to as our main crop of tomatoes — the ones that will be ready for harvest in June, our biggest tomato month. Normally, that would mean seeding out 18 or so flats of soil blocks. This year, John did only five.

Five. They look almost ridiculous in the greenhouse.

Even our early-early tomato crop is barely a crop at all. Granted, we have a whole lot more planted than the average gardener would tackle, but still. While our farm was never a large one to begin (or end) with, we did used to fill 1-1/2 hoop houses, each 200-feet long, with early tomatoes.

Now we have just one, and a meager 96-footer at that.

So it goes with everything else we’re growing for spring. Where a 200-foot bed used to hold only one single crop (often, two or three of those beds were required), we now fit four — sometimes five — different things into the one row.

Earlier in the season I caught John sitting at the island in the kitchen, pouring through last year’s planting records trying to figure out how to pare them down. Flummoxed, he threw his hands up and exclaimed, “I don’t know how to do this!”

His despair didn’t last long, thank goodness. Knowing how much to plant for two restaurants remains a guessing game, but one that John’s taking much more lightly. It’s a good thing, in many ways. Now that he has more time, he’s a calmer man. And more available, as well, which is coming in especially handy for me.

See, that top trim board needs a fresh coat of white paint…and I’m sure as heck not going up there.