Last night, a room full of very respectful fifth graders gave their rapt attention to my version of Patrick Henry's speech. This afternoon, one of the school tour moms told David Thomas, "Riley's Farm is magic." I couldn't quite hear what she said, so David repeated it: "She said what I believe--this place is blessed." About two hours later, I dropped in on the rehearsal for the "Near St. Patrick's Day Ball at the Old Packing Shed." Logan Creighton sang "Whiskey in the Jar" with a voice that perfectly matched his range. He might as well have been standing on a dry stone wall in County Cork, earning the brotherly laugh of a dozen Irish shepherds. My marine friend, Steve Klein, belted out Rosey O'Grady in a perfect baritone that made me think, "why haven't I put this guy on stage earlier?" Susan Usher put piano to the rhythm and the chords for Danny Boy, and David Thomas punched out the very soul of the tune with a clarity and strength of voice that made me think, "let's have a moment of silence for poor Danny's Da'." Angela Shaddix sang "The Parting Glass," very nearly a cappella, without a written score, and I wanted to hang my head and weep. (The staff sees me get emotional too much, so I held back.)
When I got back to the house my good friend, John Reilly, an Irishman who spent his youth as a bull rider, sent me a card in the mail about St. Patrick's day. I can't quite repeat the joke, but Mary and I had a good laugh. Brandon Ryder was excited about making retail work around here. Jon Harmon loves to see the kids catch a fish for the first time. The bakery--in a recession--sold more pies than ever. Jeff Hammond got in here at 5:00 AM to work on Courage, New Hampshire, and Maricella--fresh from wisdom tooth surgery--helped out working the windows. Jan Thiem--as always--troops on, through colds and storms and icy roads and the duties of a young grandmother, to help make this place work.
My son Samuel and my daughter Lizzy and my son Nicholas and my son Lockton have all discovered music. They beg me for a new piano, new Irish flutes, and they get geared up in their colonial clothes to join the orchestra downstairs. My daughter Mallory labors to bring you new issues of old news, and she is going to be marrying a man who loves history and drama and music.
My wife teaches Gabriel how to do his fractions, and listens to him read, and she stops to rub my neck as I write the farm journal.
How does one man ever deserve such heaven?
Sometimes paradise, sometimes the dream, is a waking affair.
I stand all amazed.
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