She was everything we had dreamed of and more: a bit of light at the tip of a small mountaintop. She was old farmland, good farmland; the one lasting piece of cleared land on this one lane road surrounded by wood and state forest. The stone walls were mystifying, the pond perfectly sized, the blueberries just beginning to hold promise of fruit.
“Let me tell you about where I grew up, not so far from here…” and she did. She started weaving images through our brains like the artwork on her walls. She told us of the farm we were on, and how she used to sell her art at the stand, how her husband had worked for years pruning and picking without a single farming bone in his body. ‘Just for the love of apples.’ She told us of the pies she had baked, the farm stand they had built and grown in. She went round and round – a traveler in time sitting right before us. “And now there’s no one to take care of this old place.” She looked down at her hands. “Of course you can pick the apples – go pick them to your heart’s content.”
They arrived the week before Christmas. Coming in the late afternoon, bringing with them encouragement and faith in a project that was still barely begun. We sat around the kitchen table surrounding a freshly brewed pot of tea, and were refreshed by their presence there. Chris, myself, my sister Katie, her partner Than, and Caleb, our two year old son, gathered. And how good it felt to be simply in their company.