I sat down in a field ...

Oak in a field

I sat down in a field to write a story for my grandkids.  It was July and already the air hung heavy as the day warmed and temperatures soared, hot and humid.  The gnarled oak tree provided small comfort…

Once upon a time there was a farm … what a cliché beginning.  Don’t all kids’ stories start out that way?  Back to my train of thought….

The farm was nestled in a small valley encircled by golden-hued rolling hills dotted with oak and madrone and stately cottonwoods.  Wheel-lines spurting sprays of cooling water to the surrounding fields; the sound echoing – ch, ch, ch, ch was mesmerizingly bucolic.

Oh, where is my concentration?  I’ve been listening to the cadence of the sprinklers …

CH Bailey sits in this tranquil setting.  Big and white, the farmhouse is the focal point.  Its black plantation shutters and iconic red door that mimics the tones of the outbuildings has weathered the summer’s smoldering heat and winter’s icy winds.  And, oh the tales it can tell.  Laughter shared between family and friends; and kids scampering up the staircase only to slide down the banister with squeals of delight.

Now working as a bed and breakfast for tourists and sightseers and the just plain weary, Bailey’s allure endures.  We are here as the much-in-need of rest type of guests.  Again, I’m wandering from the story …

Life at CH Bailey

So, on this farm there are assorted structures.  Every farm has to have a barn.  CH Bailey is no exception.  Batten boards long ago painted brick red form the exterior walls; patches of grayed, bare wood showing through.  The high peak is covered by a sturdy galvanized roof.  It creates a lovely sound when the rains patter.  And … did I mention the working outhouse?

No farm would be complete unless there were a few critters.  Two old dogs wander and laze around.  They rise to greet newcomers welcoming them with a wag of their tails, only to retreat to the comfort of their beds.  Probably half a dozen chickens peck and cluck in the hen yard; yielding eggs for delightful concoctions like savory vegetable soufflés.

A handful of fruit trees, a neatly tended vegetable garden and fragrant herbs adorn the farm.  Thrown into the culinary mix are willows and magnolias, shrubs and roses which sweetly scent the air; while a long row of heady lavender planted in the middle of the bocce courts, sways in the afternoon breeze.

Farewell for now

As I sit and take in the quiet peacefulness, it occurs to me that this is no longer a story for my grandkids.  That will be a different chapter.  This is a story for me.

Thank-you CH Bailey ~ Missy