Selah

“Sorry, Charlie,” Patty had said as she’d banished the rooster from the hen house one Saturday afternoon. The name had stuck, along with a mournful, ever-present crow. The squeak in the kitchen’s screen door tickled Charlie’s inner ear, and once again, the rooster let out a rather loud cock-a-doodle-do as it announced the start of a brand-new day.

Patty had been getting up earlier and earlier, setting off for her old homestead before sunrise and then coming back to eat breakfast before the day’s work at the local veterinary office. This morning was no exception. The essence of fresh ground coffee still lingered in the air. Lila breathed in its earthy fragrance, rolled over to her side, and let it soothe her. Since their stay in Israel, Patty and Lila had both taken an exceptional liking to strong coffee, always freshly ground with a splash of Georgia’s milk.

Georgia, the farm’s new milk cow, had been Gram’s parting gift to Patty. Patty’s long-held desire was to have a milk cow onto which she could fasten a collar that had been fitted with a bell. Gram thought this was a silly notion, as the county was already amply supplied with straight-from-the-udder milk. However, upon Patty’s return from Israel and her two weeks spent with Mama Grace in Washington, DC, she was greeted with a milk cow sporting a loud-clanging copper bell.

“Gram wanted you to have her, Patty,” said Lila’s father, Henry, as he introduced the new addition to the farm. This particular cow had an amusing mop of white curly hair between its ears, bearing a striking resemblance to the portrait Patty had seen on her recent DC historical tour. So, in honor of America’s first president in the land of the free, Georgia Freedom received her name.

Lila threw off her bedcovers and slipped on her robe before shuffling down to the kitchen. The newly varnished floors were cool under her feet. The radio was playing softly, and Patty’s breakfast dishes were washed and neatly stacked in the dish drainer. The French press had been cleaned and prepared for its second brew of the day, the beans expertly ground and sprinkled with a dash of cinnamon.

Several loaves of bread were cooling on wooden racks. It’s amazing how much you can accomplish when you rise before the sun and the rooster’s crow, thought Lila. Patty had been baking numerous loaves of bread in her stone oven. The oven had been another surprise waiting for them on their return. Patty’s brilliantly marketed bread—“How much good stuff can one stuff in a loaf of bread?”—was flying off the farm stand’s shelves. Her merchandising strategy was blunt, honest, and effective. Her Saturday farm stand had grown so big and the customers so numerous that Lila’s mother, Frances, had suggested some changes might be in order.

“I’ve been thinking about trying something new,” Frances had said, adjusting her new reading glasses that she loathed wearing. “Community shares, or CSAs, I believe they are called. It’s a selling of goods off the farm, a couple of pickles and a few squashes at a time.”

CSAs had become the rage with all the city folks as they eagerly purchased shares from a local farm, benefiting both farmers and consumers. The family had decided to give it a go at the last minute, taking advantage of Lila’s computer skills and the family’s ability to grow everything delicious.

Lila had managed the farm’s website while finishing her internship in Israel. Stateside, Patty and Lila’s parents tended the soil and manned the stand. It was wildly successful—too much so, in fact, leaving them to turn away many disappointed urban dwellers. They simply were not equipped to transport all that was ordered.

Patty had added several different kinds of bread to the menu: organic rye, whole wheat, smelt, and sourdough. She had also added honey and sheep and goat milk products to the mix, creating an even longer waiting list.

Lila had so much to do. Selah’s Farm was soon to be inaugurated. Its simple beginning was emerging with an equally simple intent: to mingle rest with purpose. The farm was even named for memory and purpose: in memory of Lila’s year in Israel teaching in a school for children with special needs, and for the purpose of bringing rest and pause to those in need of it—parents, caregivers, and the champions who battle special needs in their own way every day.

Gram had willed her share of the farm, along with a well-preserved nest egg, to Lila. She had said it was “for a purpose.” She had said it was “to redeem time.” Lila wasn’t sure Gram had really known the full extent of what would transpire, just that it needed to do so. She wasn’t exactly sure what was to emerge, either, but she figured she would give the invitation a chance and was determined to enjoy its unfolding.

Mama Grace and her granddaughter would be coming in one week’s time to celebrate Selah’s Farm’s new beginning and to enjoy some much-needed refreshment. Grace, Lila, and Patty had become fast friends in Israel, bonding through birth nation and common cause.

Mama Grace, it turns out, had more than a passing fancy in Selah’s Farm. She had an aching need concerning her own granddaughter that she believed Lila and Patty could meet. Mama Grace was a force of nature, although you wouldn’t think so by looking at her. She was middle-aged and as slim as a willow reed, her cadence defined by a slight limp. Her large, round eyes were set wide above high cheekbones, and full lips framed a bright smile that stood out as a beacon against her dewy cocoa skin. Her neck and shoulders were slender. Her thick, braided hair perched in a lofty nest, making her look very much like the regal African royal Patty and Lila had come to see her as.

“She looks like a queen from Sheba or someplace like that,” Patty had remarked one day.