June Nine Months Later
Madison
Standing on the small embankment overlooking the lavender fields, I take in the splendid purple scenery of the flowers in full bloom. This has been a long time coming, nine months of waiting for the harvest season, the ripeness permeating the air with a heavenly scent.
After the barn fire last fall and the obliteration of a year’s worth of crops, George and I focused on setting up our new home and planning our wedding. During that time, I also got an idea.
I wanted to organize a festival. Not the kind with tons of vendors selling various arts and crafts. And definitely not the kind with dozens of food trucks, bouncy houses, or elbow-to-elbow crowds with hard-to-find parking. Nope, none of that.
I wanted this event to be something different. Something magical and unique.
I came up with the idea after witnessing dozens of Heartsboro folks gathered together at Jamison Farm for an old-fashioned barn raising. Our sweet, competent new foreman, Billy Hood, arranged this community outreach, and I was overwhelmed by the turnout.
People showed up with tools and machinery, food and drinks, the joyful atmosphere showcasing the community spirit of our small town. I watched our friends and neighbors leverage their collective strength and skills, volunteering their labor to construct a brand-new barn on our property.
George was in awe, his vulnerability and courage to accept help a huge step for him.
It was vital for him to see the support network of his community come to his aid since his grandfather died.
The day was magical when everyone came together, lending their tools and strength to George, and I’ll never forget it.
The new barn sits on the footprint of the original structure, its large, airy loft and rafters the perfect drying space for the anticipated new crop of lavender.
A festival would be an ideal commemoration to mark the successful upcoming June harvest season.
A second gathering of the townspeople who helped us, launching us into this next phase of our lives.
At first, George wasn’t too keen on my idea, afraid of what might happen if we opened the farm to too many people.
And I understood his trepidation. But after a little coaxing and with the support of my sister, Jenny, Janie, and Billy Hood, we’ve put together something remarkable.
Thank goodness Beverly declined to teach summer school this year.
Having her on the farm during her summer break to help has been a Godsend.
Today’s event has been a long time coming. It’s a celebration of George’s flowers and the beauty they possess, along with the functionality of the products made from them. I also want it to be about relaxing and unplugging from the day-to-day stresses of our lives.
Ahem, I should know.
The festival is about experiencing the jaw-dropping beauty of nature up close and personal. It’s simple, really. Acres of lavender in full bloom. Fields of sunflowers and wildflowers for guests to pick. Homemade lavender products made from the crops grown right here at the farm.
I envision the soothing sounds of bees buzzing and the vintage windmill spinning in the distance as the faint sound of an acoustic guitar duo lingers in the air.
Families enjoying picnics and folks sampling delicious lavender lemonade as they pick a bucket of the most gorgeous flowers carefully tended by George Jamison himself.
Sitting on the ground in the lavender field and watching hundreds of butterflies joyfully jump from plant to plant, sucking in their sweet nectar, the blessings of nature for all to behold.
I love my new role on the farm, and I’m excited about this event we’ve been planning for months.
I’ve had time to reflect, to finally breathe and lean into the “soft life.” Don’t get me wrong, farming is a ton of work and entirely different from the corporate world I once was part of.
But I’ve found that I’ve never been more satisfied or beholden, filled with gratitude and happiness that defies description.
Especially with the most essential blessing this new chapter of my life has to offer:
My husband, George.
Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, we married in the new barn among the scent of sawdust and earth, the bare interior decorated with twinkle lights and evergreen swags.
I wore a traditional wedding gown with long sleeves, a veil that reached the floor, and cowboy boots.
George was dashing in his fitted new black suit and boots, the two of us in awe of our good fortune.
Janie officiated our sweet, simple ceremony among our closest friends and family. Beverly stood nearby next to my mother and her new husband, Mike. Our wedding was a family event, just like theirs. But that’s a story for another day.
Jenny and her crew outdid themselves with an old-fashioned Southern buffet of pulled pork with all the sides.
We finished off our meal with a decadent three-tiered strawberry wedding cake, topped off with the cutest his and her cowboy boots instead of the traditional bride and groom figurines.
We even had a black and white framed photo of Ralph and Rosie from their wedding day sitting nearby to remind us how we got here.
George has blossomed into his life as a husband and fifth-generation owner of a successful family farm.
I’ve been blessed watching him change and grow, his transformation remarkable.
We’ve found common ground and compromise on important decisions.
We’re patient and compassionate with one another, and we talk about our future together, no holds barred.
Do we still have disagreements? Of course. Does George still spend time alone near the pond and the broken treehouse? Yes. But it’s mainly a place of solace for him to de-stress and relax away from the world when he’s working through a stressful problem or missing his grandparents.
I’ve been amazed watching him become a true leader on the farm, his communication skills growing stronger each day with encouragement from Billy and the day laborers.
Unfortunately, the toxicity of Kip Johnson hindered George for way too many years.
Thank goodness the former foreman and bully packed up and left town after his brief stint in jail.
He was only charged with 2nd-degree arson after George bravely testified and asked the court for mercy, the prosecutor offering a plea deal.
At first, I couldn’t understand why George would want to help his enemy.
I wanted to lock him up and throw away the key.
But then he explained how the conviction was still a felony, which would carry far-reaching consequences for the rest of Kip’s life.
I believe empathy played a considerable part in George’s decision, which is one of the greatest gifts to come out of his neurodiversity.
We’re not sure where Kip ended up. But Janie heard he’s moved on to a tobacco farm somewhere in North Carolina.
“Hey.”
I startle and turn to see George approaching the embankment where I’m standing. The summer breeze blows my hair back from underneath my wide-brimmed hat, and I beam.
“Hey, handsome.”
His broad smile wrecks me in the most positive way. He comes up alongside me, his gaze focused on the magnificent lavender fields as he threads his fingers through mine. “Are you drinking plenty of water today? It’s gonna be hot, and I don’t want you feeling faint with all we have going on.”
“Yes, sir. I’m well hydrated, I’ve had a snack, slathered on the sunscreen, and I’m wearing my most comfortable shoes.”
“Good.”
His focus shifts to my face, and I inhale a quick gasp of air, his blue eyes and dark hair from underneath his cowboy hat drawing me in like a bee to honey. This gorgeous man, my husband, is everything I could have ever wanted.
He lets go of my hand and gently presses both palms against my protruding, pregnant belly. His joy is evident as he eases his body into a kneeling position and kisses the flowery, taut fabric of my maternity sundress.
“How’s he doing today?” George asks. The way he looks up at me with a profound expression of childlike wonder mixed with the unmistakable aura of a protective alpha male immediately lights up my insides.
I take off his hat and comb my fingers through his dark hair. “He’s excited, like me.”
George grins and leans his cheek against my hand before kissing the center of my palm.
When I found out I was pregnant a month after our wedding, I wasn’t sure how to tell him the news. Sure, we had discussed the matter of children, and miraculously, George had a change of heart. He realized if he wanted to keep the farm in the family, we needed to have a family.
Still, I knew he might have valid concerns about whether or not our child would have the same condition as him. Unfortunately, research revealed that if one parent had autism, the child would have a higher likelihood of having it compared to neither parent having the condition.
Lo and behold, imagine my surprise at George’s ecstatic response after I told him I was pregnant.
From that moment on, he reassured me that becoming a father would be the most miraculous thing he’s ever done as a man and that he was looking forward to being an exemplary parent.
Perhaps his autism would become his biggest strength as a dad, just like it’s been as my husband?
And if our child has the same condition as George, we will love him and guide him in the same way as a neurotypical child.
God gifted me the right father and partner; we’re a team. I know we will give our all to this child, no matter what.
George stands, puts his hat back on, and snakes his arm around my waist. We are both mesmerized at the sight of the purple colors bending and lifting in the summer breeze, the unmistakable scent of heaven finally permeating the farm again.
Standing there with the love of my life by my side, I feel a sense of anticipation. I know our journey is far from over. We have so much to look forward to: the June harvest, the birth of our son, and the ongoing relationships we are building within the community of Heartsboro.
And I’m ready for it all.
Ready to face life’s challenges with gratitude and resilience. Ready to love and to be loved in this quiet life with George by my side.
The edges of my world have been softened. George offers a steadiness without question, protecting my heart with his tender spirit and unwavering presence. He’s my refuge, and I feel cherished for being exactly who I’m meant to be.
George is my person, the gentle one who makes me feel like I’ve finally found my purpose.
My joy.
My paradise.
THE END