Everything was set. I even hired an extra gardener to come and rake the walkways. We’d come through the fire scare, and I wanted to thank the universe by celebrating Spirit Hill, giving it a big thank you shine.
We had guests arriving Friday afternoon to celebrate a major birthday, and so I paid special attention to the outdoor table area. The fallen apples were cleared away, the grass cut, the weeds pulled, the table and chairs wiped clean. Some of the kiwi leaves were yellowing, so the plants were fed and watered. The fountain water was skimmed clean and refilled. The roses trimmed. The grill cleaned. Some of the grapes were eaten.
You get the idea. We, the Spirit Hill team, were in get ready for guests mode.
Inside the main house Julie and Norma had done their magic: all the bedding was stripped and brought to the cleaners and replaced. Floors and surfaces were washed. Flowers were cut and arranged. Butter and cream were purchased and put in the fridge. A bottle of our olive oil was out on the counter.
You get the idea. We were working to get everything perfect.
Friday morning I woke up early and took pictures of the property for half an hour because it was misty out and staggeringly beautiful. The raked walkways looked like suede. I was floating more than walking.
And then I went to take a shower and found out we were out of water.
I got dressed and walked up to the storage tank, climbed on top of a white bucket and unscrewed the top to peer inside.
Waaaaaay down on the bottom there was the memory of water.
I went back inside.
I forgot to mention that I had stitches on my face and was not supposed to do anything physical aside from walk ten minutes on a flat surface. So all of those things I listed above were things other people had done. I’d just stood there and healed.
But now I was on the farm alone and it was time to get to work.
I called my daughter in Berkeley and asked if she could come help.
I called Melissa (if you make reservations here, you’ll talk to Melissa) and told her what was going on so she would be able to tell the guests what was happening. Then I called Carolyn (Spirit Hill Farm is her place, her dream), and the three of us all got to work, fast.
When there have been fires raging in your area, getting help with your well or getting water delivered to fill your storage tank is not easy. We heard things such as “next Wednesday” and “we aren’t working Monday”.
Remember: this was Friday of Labor Day weekend and our guests were coming up for a special event in a matter of hours for a celebration that had been months in the planning.
Carolyn and Melissa and I dropped the f-bomb a couple of times. At one point nearing noon (remember, the guests were supposed to arrive at 4 and when there is no water, there are many basic things that become difficult) we all stopped what we were doing to say a prayer. We found about that after the fact, after Carolyn called again to beg our well company to find some space for us, and Weeks Drilling and Pump Co. said, “Yes.”
My daughter and her girlfriend went to buy jugs of water and lunch for us. They came back and helped me by watering the plants in the garden so the lettuces and tomatoes could still flourish and so the sensitive seedlings would survive the hot day. They helped skim the pool, cleaned off the porch, and did all the last-minute tasks I normally do before guests arrive. Every time I tried to do something physical, my daughter would look at me and say, “Mom,” until I stopped.
Remember, also, this is time of COVID. This is time when, even when it’s blazing hot out, when you are around people you don’t see on a daily basis, you’re wearing a mask.
At 2:00 the big Weeks truck pulled up, and a man smiling under his mask got out of the driver’s seat. Five hours later, he drove away, having fixed a pump and sunk a pipe sixty feet deeper into the well. The water tank was full. Thirty minutes later the guests, who were running late, arrived.
Saturday morning, Carolyn group-texted Melissa and me. She said, “I woke up this morning thinking about yesterday. I feel like each of us came up to the edge of the abyss and said, ‘I honestly do not know what to do.’ And collectively we stood there and did not give up. We refused to throw in the towel. And with our collective energy focused on finding a solution, it emerged. And why were we so desperate–because we wanted the guests to have the party week-end they had hoped for. For me, yesterday is an imprinted experience of the fierceness of the feminine spirit. I feel like we are invincible.”
The reason I moved from Boston to Sebastopol to be farmer-in-training, writer-in-residence was because I wanted to see what three women could do when they had a common cause. There is something so magical about Spirit Hill Farm. It has a life of its own, obviously: it is life, and it makes you want to serve it, help it thrive, because it does those things for you: Spirit Hill feeds you on a soul level and also on a very physical, boy, that apple is delicious way. It’s so hard to explain without sounding like a Hallmark card, but it’s thrilling to work collaboratively at something that is bigger than you for the benefit of others. Sharing Spirit Hill is one of the best experiences because it’s love at first sight for people.
And the figs are almost ripe.
And when you float in the pool, you can hear the apples drop from the trees at random times and you are reminded that there is more than enough, and that everything is going to be okay.