A handful of acres, a few out buildings, root cellar, chickens and a 1950 Farmall H that starts, eventually.  In the shed, calf hooves plunk floorboards where the hollow woodenness smells of compost.  Eyes sting while the hay is bailed with makeshift resolve.  One season, pumpkin seed planting softens hands that pat mounds of feathery soil.  In another, sunflowers swim in a commodity sea and you run for your paints.  Out front 10 siblings chase with hoses and buckets and kick balls and tree stumps are bases.  There’s an endless strawberry patch and a humid, itchy picking day and a joyful pocketknife cutting lamented asparagus.   A hand-pushed cultivator follows straight-edge strings in sight of a denim-staining crabapple fight.  A curtain is pushed aside and a mom watches and a chore is assigned.  There’s a raided bowl of cookie dough and an escape to the upstairs bathroom. A cold morning brings a wood burner stoked and a labyrinth of long shadows cross the slow, northward slope.  


Abiding commitment changes the equation.  Our life’s work is passing forward the best of the place we call home. 

Be in touch

We can see the past but not influence it.  We can influence the future but not see it.


--Stuart Brand, The Clock of the Long Now


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