Finding The Happy Places

It’s a spot I’d driven by thousands of times, a little country farm with a storefront, tucked away, across from our town’s middle school. In all my years here, I never went in. But Covid made for strange bedfellows and one day, needing eggs, I entered. Now “The Farm” has become a staple in my life for several wonderful reasons.

First, is the setting: a sweeping vista of green fields and rustic red barns, populated by a small herd of cattle and the occasional sheep. In the summer, one of the meadows becomes a sea of red, pink, and yellow zinnias. The farm sells them in fat bunches, held together with elastic bands. A four-foot plastic chicken stands by the entrance.

The store itself is a plain wooden red barn, barely big enough to house the florist section of a supermarket. A little dog named Lolly wanders around. Every once in a while, a burly farm hand comes in carrying a bushel of whatever’s ripe. It’s like a throwback to a different time in America.

A table of crusty artisan bread is there when you enter. Greek yogurt made locally is in the fridge, as is ice cream, cheese, eggs, and milk, everything healthy and farm fresh. There’s always organic fruits, vegetables, and herbs. In the summer they have the tomatoes I remember from childhood—huge and red and fragrant.

In various corners of the place, there’s homemade locally-harvested honey, fresh mozzarella, and a rack of baked goods—round, sweet “monkey” bread with tear-off sections, crusty French baquettes, and croissants, some chocolate. (God, no wonder this is my happy place).

Another reason I like going is Claudia, who works behind the register. She looks in her early twenties, young, dark-haired, pretty, and petite. She speaks in a Spanish accent and despite working every day it seems, is always cheerful and sweet. “How are you?” she asks. We always chat a few moments. “Stay well,” she says to everyone as they leave.

I’ve learned not to go to the farm on weekends, especially in fall and winter. Ours is a tiny Connecticut town, but believe it or not, we have a tourist season. Every Saturday and Sunday, cars from New York and even New Jersey load up on pumpkins, cider, and Christmas trees from the local venues. Not surprisingly, the farm is included on these jaunts.The place gets crowded.

I don’t know why the farm makes me happy, but it does. I’m usually in and out in minutes but something about the place revives me—fresh, healthy food, Claudia, farm hands, red barns, cows, even Lolly.

It took me a long time to find the farm, but in these sad, anxious times, I’m grateful. Who knew? Happiness can be found in the smallest of places.

Do you have a happy place? Comments are always welcome and if you like, please share.

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