risk assessment

The first week of April we went to go look at a property for sale. It was beautiful land but the house and accompanying barns were in such disrepair that the thought of rehabbing them was overwhelming, even for a fallen-down-farmhouse-romantic like myself. So we imagined we'd need to tear them down, and the price for the land was unjustifiably high without any usable buildings. We came home despondent, but agreed we were done looking at land for the season. We forced ourselves to live in the present. Spring was approaching and it would make more sense to look for land again in the fall, after the harvest.

The very next morning while we were doing chores, a friend was leaving a message on our machine, telling us of a small farm property and the owner who was getting ready to sell. Despite our promise to live in the present we went to see it.

We did so the very next day. We didn't walk more than 50 yards from the car. We didn't go into the house or the barn. We both said yes. It was the same reaction we had to leasing the farm we are on right now. It was the same synchronized reaction we had to moving to the pig farm in North Carolina. Some things just feel absolutely right. That was April 2nd.  20 days later our offer has been accepted.  We have a signed purchase and sale agreement. We are in the midst of inspections, septic, water, home.

I cannot believe how fast this is coming. We have been wanting our own farm ever since we quit our office jobs and our city apartments in San Francisco.  We are extremely superstitious about this place and I feel greatly nervous just writing about its possibility here.

But I had to. For I needed to explain my absence here. I needed to give you a little idea of chaos that is going on in mind, body and farm here at Longest Acres.

We are eager and in love with the property and this has coincided with the onset of spring. The time to till and plant a garden is imminent.  Winnie, our milk cow is about to calf and thus about to flood us back with milk. We have an entire barn and attic and 2 room home to pack up and move. I am now 7 months pregnant and becoming more useless by the hour. The wild ramp harvest is just weeks away, and we've made commitments to restaurants and stores in Boston. We need to find replacements for ourselves, here at our current, leased farm. I'm looking to expand my sheep herd and Louisa and I have been talking about goats. There are many balls in our proverbial air. This is a less than ideal time to go away from the farm for a weekend (like I just did) let alone move all persons, animals, and possessions.

Fortunately, the new property is just a matter of miles away from where we are now. We go there nearly every day for some form of inspection, or just to lust after it, or sit on the covered porch. Yesterday I did a small amount of tilling in one of the gardens. Today we are bringing a truck load of this winter's manure over (because that shit is gold, and you don't just abandon it). We've been advised to do nothing at the property until we have closed and title is in hand. That is good, sound, sensible advice that we will quietly ignore.

It's all about risk assessment. This is a big summer for us with the arrival of the baby coming smack dab in the middle.  We are taking the risk that things don't work out and we find ourselves and our animals and our possessions homeless and me 8 1/2 months pregnant. That could happen, I suppose. Though I have faith somebody would take us in. More overwhelming than that fear is the ideal of a seamless transition. We want everything perfectly in line so that, upon closing, we can move that day, sleep there that night, milk Winnie there that next morning, water the tomato plants in that next afternoon. Weed the onions that evening. Hill the potatoes. Eat dinner on that porch after having jumped into the pond for the season's first swim. Close in the chickens, water the sheep (and goats?) and cows and pigs in their respective pens and lay our tired bones down on our mattress on the floor of the empty home that is Ours.

We are ready for this Forever Home to come to fruition. I think we are nearly there. For good measure our fingers, toes, hooves and scaly chicken feet are all duly crossed.