The Angell Farm in anticlimatic

Do you ever have out of body experiences? I sometimes find myself telescoping away from myself, figuratively, leaving myself far behind, far below, as a tiny dot- with all of life and humanity and time and space swirling around in all directions. Whatever meaning I’ve discovered in the process of writing my own story, the entirety of my life in fact, appears as a puff of cloud for a moment, somewhere down in the swirling green, before evaporating.

It catches me unaware sometimes, in the oddest places. Mid conversation, for instance. And when it catches me my eyes go blank, and everything around me turns into a cheap plastic imitation of itself. Junk. Pointless, worthless junk. Everything but the other people around me, who glow like the only things that matter- even though they’re more finite than the junk, technically.

William Lundy built the building we use as a workshop, and we still use many of the tools he left behind. I did some digging, and discovered that he bought the vacant lot in the 90s with his wife, both in their 20s, and built both the shop, and a house next door, before the 00s. There he would live and work for his entire life, until finally- as a retired 75 year old- he would separate and sell off the shop to Ralph Angell, who had a dairy farm and needed a downtown distribution center. He’d sell his house a few years later, and die a few years later still at the ripe old age of 91.

In 1952.