In Praise of the Improbable; Wayfarer's Farm
I laughed, and set my shopping basket on the counter.
"No, not rich, but I'm pretty happy."
"But you're famous."
"Um, within a half yard radius!"
I'd come to the gourmet kitchen shop, to replace a French press carafe, which had danced off the top of the fridge.
"What about your second book?" she asked. "Have you done the reading yet?"
"Uh huh, on the Winter Solstice. A professional guy filmed it and put the five generations story on youtube. It's pretty good. Am working on the third book."
"No!! What's it about?"
"Well, I had an organic farm when I was young. And foolish. In the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, a green pretty land.
"Did it ten years. Some funny stories coming together in the manuscript about adventures with my Appalachian neighbors and with animals, wild ones and the more or less domestic.
"Right now I'm coming up against a don't-want-to-go-there-wall. It's about the power company helicopter."
"Their spraying 2,4-D, along their so-called "right of way" and nearly killing me, is the reason I left the farm.
"But to my heart, it's the least of the stories, and I'm having trouble with it. That farm was beautiful, eventually, and carpe diem incarnate.
"For awhile, I so didn't want to "go there" about the 2,4-D that I thought about chucking the project altogether.
"But I'm having such fun with the other stories. Ready end of this summer, looks like. God willing and the creek don't rise."
She walked with me to the door, while I looked neither to the right or the left into the shop of temptations. She was one of the first people I met in town, warm and welcoming to me, when I crawled out of the tent. And she loves a good story:
"Come to Taos," she grinned, "and bloom!"