Welcome Home

It has been a while since I’ve written on this blog. The last you heard from me, we were living in a yurt on the farm in North Carolina. So much has changed since then, and it is my hope that over time, I can tell the whole story.

I feel as though I should begin with the day we decided to leave the farm. It’s not that we wanted to leave the farm. In fact, I still pine for the beauty and the solace of that magical place. I miss our family there, and I miss the mountains and the animals and the simplicity. I miss the breweries in Morganton. But we were still experiencing a void in our souls, a big emptiness that we knew was there but still didn’t know why.

One night, it began to rain. Kelli has always loved to sit outside when it rains, listening to the raindrops fall upon whatever roof was above us. On that night, we sat underneath our pop-up canopy with a glass of Chardonnay in one hand and each other’s hand in the other. We listened to the rain for a while, and then we would both sigh simultaneously. Then we would listen to the rain some more. It was the first time in years that I could remember my mind being quiet. I didn’t feel any stress, and for a change, I didn’t feel any anxiety. Looking back, I think that night was the turning point for me in my ongoing struggle with anxiety, for I could actually hear what was going on around me instead of only hearing what was going on inside me.

A moment of exposition: for as long as Kelli and I have been together, we have talked about buying our own piece of land. That is our ultimate goal. We want a few acres that we can call our own, where we can plant our own food, ride dirt bikes, and raise Australian Shepherds. We would like for it to be close to water where we could have a boat and an endless array of kayaks and fishing poles. But that takes a lot more money than what we have now, and certainly more than we had that night under the canopy that caught the rain above us. To do so is to understand it as a goal for the distant future. So distant, in fact, that we can’t even set a realistic timeframe.

There is only one other thing that we have always discussed about our lives, and as we sat there that night, sipping our Chardonnay and holding each other’s hands, that other thing popped into my mind. I guess I had lost sight of it for a while, partly because I was so wrapped up in my own internal struggle and partly because of so many other things. But I thought of it then, and so I asked Kelli this question: “What could you see us doing more within the next year: buying land, or becoming foster parents.”

I still don’t know what made me ask that question in that moment, but I can honestly say beyond a shadow of doubt that our lives changed in that instant. Our emptiness was still there, but we had discovered why. We had discovered what would fill it. We had solved that prodigious mystery of the purpose of our lives, and in doing so, I swear to you that even the air I breathed felt different as it entered my lungs.

She didn’t have to provide an answer to my question. The answer was obvious. We were going to do whatever it took to become foster parents. The only question that was left was where we would do this. And even that answer came easily. Much of those details I cannot share due to privacy purposes, so I’ll simply say that this decision led us to where we now live, in Inverness, Florida. Kelli has returned home, for she graduated from high school here, and I have found a home. Annabel is in love with her new town, her new home, her new neighborhood. She instantly made friends, and we found her a new karate school that has been a blessing to us as well.

The old saying is true: when your lives are on the right path, everything falls into place. For us, everything has fallen perfectly in place since the day I asked her that question. Our stars have aligned. Our universe is whole again.

Two nights ago, we finished our last of the ten classes that are required to become foster parents. An hour ago, we ordered loft beds, and on Monday we will schedule our last home visit that will lead us to our official licensing. It is becoming real. It feels real. Real scary, sometimes. But real. This is happening.

So much else has happened in between, and I hope to tell it all as I go. I’ll try not to go several months without writing again. So, until next time…  

Happy Camper

Sunday, we dropped Annabel and her cousin Rylea off at Good Counsel Camp. It will last a week. That’s one week until I see my baby again. Seven days. I don’t know if I can do this.  

We’ve talked about her going to this camp for a long time, so I knew it was coming. And I’m absolutely convinced it is a beautiful and magical place. Kelli and her family were all campers and counselors there, and her parents were even caretakers. Their family has been linked to this camp for so many years that there’s not a family gathering that occurs without at least one GCC story being told.  

But a whole week. I just don’t know.  

Saturday night, after she was all snuggled up on the pull out sofa, she said, “Daddy, can you tuck me in?” Of course, this is an every night occurrence. The kid will not even attempt to go to sleep until her mom and I have tucked her in and have given her magic kisses like Mimi (Kelli’s grandmother) used to do. But it was different that night. Usually, she will wait for me to give the three magic kisses, at which point I will hug her and she will hug me back. But that night… she didn’t wait for the magic kisses. She just said, “Daddy, I’m so nervous.”  

“Sweetie,” I said, “Have you listened to all of the stories your mother had told you about Good Counsel? They are beautiful stories, right? Well, I’ve never been to Good Counsel, but I went to camp when I was your age, too. And to this day, I remember almost every moment of it. They are some of my favorite memories. And though you will miss us and we will miss you, you are about to create some memories that you will carry with you forever.”

She hugged me so tight, and she said, “Ok daddy. I love you.” And just like that, she was asleep.  

As I lay down that night, I tried not to think about being away from her for a week, or think about her being in a cabin, trying to go to sleep but missing us so much and being scared and me not being able to get to her. Instead, I thought about my days at camp. Surprisingly, they are still so incredibly vivid in my mind. I remembered the night hike which was the first time I ever heard an owl hooting in the wild. I remember sleeping in the cabins and all the boys telling stories and next thing we knew the sun was coming up and we hadn’t slept a minute. I remember big meals and games and the waterfalls we stood under. I remember touching a snake for the first time (thank God a professional was holding the durn thing).  

All of these memories came back to me the next day when we took her to GCC. We walked in and the first thing that was said was, “No cell phones.” They told us, there were signs posted on the walls, there was a piece of paper taped to the counter and on the door as you exited the building. “No cell phones.” We checked her in and I could see the nervousness on her face, but she was amped a little, too. Her eyes were big, her chest was puffed with anxiousness. We then went to the infirmary and gave our consent for her to receive itch cream or Benadryl were she to get a rash. Then… it was on to the cabins.  

The cabins are old. I mean… friggin’ old. They are the tiniest little things you ever did see, with several bunks crammed in for the campers and the counselors. When we walked in, Kelli said, “I’m sure you can find my name up there somewhere.” So I looked in the rafters and there were millions of signatures from all the campers past. Signatures, drawings, little pictures of various things. The rafters were covered in these calligraphic writings that date back to God-knows-when. It was incredible.  

“Is your name in this cabin?” I said to Kelli.  

“It is in all of them,” she said. And then I thought of Annabel in the history of the camp, in the history of her mother and the history of her family. (I later found out that Denise had the same exact conversation with Rylea, one cabin over, at the same time as our conversation). Suddenly, I felt this incredible energy around us, as if it was the ghost of Kelli’s childhood hanging out nearby to witness the present of her child, and I thought of how Annabel will be seeing the things her mother saw and doing the things her mother did at the very same age her mother did them. Thought it hurt me a little to walk away, I suddenly felt that it was all going to be ok.  

Then Annabel noticed that we were the only parents around and basically kicked us out. “Ok,” she said, “you all can go now. Bye. See you in a week.”  

And then… we were gone, and she was still there. It’s incredible how much I miss her right now. For the last three weeks, the three of us have lived in such tight quarters that we are never separated for any moment of any day. We are either in the yurt where our beds all but touch, or we are eating dinner outside or picking blueberries or feeding the animals. I have grown so attached to having her by my side every single moment.  

Yet, she was ready to push us out the door so she could go on and live her little nine year-old life all on her own. I don’t know if I can do this.  

I’ll say the same thing in 9 years when she graduates, just like I did when Braedon graduated this year. I’m sure I will say the same thing in (hopefully many) years when she becomes engaged to her soul mate, just like Kylie did this past week. I’m sure I will say the same when I see her venture out to places that are farther away than camp, discovering the world on her own, just like Tawney did this past weekend when she visited Colorado. The myriad of emotions I feel for my children right now are beyond expression.  

But for now, I’ll just dream of Annabel having the time of her life, and wait for her to come home and tell us all of her stories. I’m sure that will be a glorious day.

In It Together

Tim, Sonia and the kids left for a very well deserved mini-vacation yesterday, leaving the three of us alone to run the farm. It’s exciting and nerve-racking all at the same time. “We can’t let anything die on our watch,” Kelli keeps saying. But I keep telling her, “We got this. We’re in it together.” 

After work yesterday, we cleaned out the two brooders where the baby turkeys live. We fed them their chick starter food, filled their water and added a spot of apple cider vinegar to keep the parasites away. We covered the floor of the brooders with fresh wood shavings, giving them a nice clean bed to lay on. One of the turkeys jumped on top of the water pail, staring at me in his King of the World pose. Kelli and I laughed for a while, together, then covered the brooders and turned on the heat lamps before heading down to the field.  

We all walked, side by side, carrying buckets of feed for Nakoma and Rio. They get fed last, so we set the buckets down and watched as the chickens put themselves to bed in the coup. Annabel crawled into the coup looking for eggs and refilling their food and water. “One of them let me pet it!” she said. Even chickens are happy when they are allowed to roam the Earth as intended.

Onto the big field. We opened the gate and Elsie came running, reintroducing her puppy teeth to my legs and her claws to Annabel’s belly. It’s funny watching a puppy play. To get away, Annabel crawled up on the turkey perches and the turkeys flew away. Not so much flew as crashed to the ground with wings flapping hard. Those ungraceful little buggers. And I guess I hadn’t realized it, but Elsie is so ensconced in the lives of the turkeys that they all eat together. They even share water buckets. I thought that was appropriate for the way life is on a farm.  

We fed the sheep and, well, let’s face it. Sheep are pretty dumb. Three piles of food we created, and they all tried to eat from the same one. The big ones stole it all, then went to the other piles and at last the babies followed. They had to be led to something, as if it were some sort of epiphany that things other than what is right in front of them actually exists. Thankfully the older sheep were good leaders and led them to something that was good for them. In the world, it so often seems to be the other way around amongst leaders and followers.  

Then the horses. I could see it in Nakoma’s eyes, as if he was saying, “Dude, I’m the oldest animal on this farm and you make me wait until last.” He actually snatched his bucket out of our hands with his worn-down teeth and skinny lips, set it on the ground, and began eating. Rio eats less, so she was done quickly and kept trying to steal his food. So he would head butt her and make her get away. And out of all the time we were in the field, that was the one moment where the animals weren’t living in the moment together. Apparently, Nakoma and I have a lot in common: you don’t mess with a dude’s supper.  

At last, I was able to sit with a cold Yuengling and reflect on the day. It was a monumental day in our country, one that I didn’t believe would ever occur. I grew up Republican because I was told to be. Admittedly, I don’t currently know what I am because, at long last, I am trying to feel my way through this world on my own and discover how I really feel about things. It is a work in progress, but I’m trying, and I’m learning, and the knowledge I’ve gained is far more valuable than the aforementioned familial dictum.  

One feeling I have that I am certain about is this: we are all in this life together. As Americans, as humans, as residents of this beautiful world. I’ve met some beautiful couples in my life. I think of our friends Wayne and Deena, two amazing souls who, through everything, find a way to love each other more and more every day. What would drive many of us apart simply pulls them closer together. I admire them more than I could ever express.  

I think of our friends Brian and Mark and how they have been together for thirty amazing years. They have established a life together that is as complete as one could imagine, always in full support of the other’s dreams as well as their collective goals. I am a better person because I have been granted the privilege of calling them my friends.  

I think of my own mother and father and how they were side by side until the last breath of life. One could not ask for more, except for more time. I think of my writing mentor Dr. Elledge and his husband, a man of God who wishes to live for his congregation as much as for his husband. Dr. Elledge has meant the world to me for many years, and I don’t think I will ever forget the things he has taught me.  

What is the difference between these sets of spouses? Not a damn thing.

As I venture through life, I have found that the times I must endure something alone are far more difficult than when I am together with someone. Before I met Kelli, I was a mess. I never thought I would get to where I wasn’t a mess. But she pulled me through and now I have the greatest gift that life could offer: a spouse to share the rest of my life with. Wayne and Deena also have that gift. So do Brian and Mark. So did my parents, and so does Dr. Elledge.  

I’m grateful for the gift of love I’ve been given, and I’m happy for all of my friends who have also been granted that same gift.

One Week at a Time

While in the moment, it’s difficult to quantify what a change has done to you. I’m sure it will take a long time for me to fully understand it, but after the first week at Idle Acres, I can tell such a difference in myself.  

Friday was the first time in years I got to the end of a work week (and a tough one at that) without feeling like my head was going to explode from the stress. Maybe it was working outside, breathing fresh air all day and, when time permitted, writing to the rhythm of the trees. Maybe it was the constant dodging and swatting of the bees and wasps that kept me distracted from the stress at hand. Who knows?  

But Friday marked the first time in my life that I had ever worked a full day at my job and then walked a couple hundred yards to work in a field of blueberry trees. I felt so connected to them. With weed-eater in hand, I carefully navigated the bases of the trees, using the big plastic guard as a protector so that no damage would befall the trees. On one of the taller trees, the top of my weed eater bumped a branch and a few unripen berries fell to the ground. I felt distraught. I felt as though I had taken a bit of life from the trees and that I had somehow hurt it. But then I looked at the tree and saw what looked like millions of berries still growing, and it eased my mind.  

Generally, though, I get off work and spend the rest of the night (or weekend) still thinking about work. I’ll dwell on the minor mistakes I made or anticipate the workload of the next day. It’s natural, I guess. Especially with jobs that are always fast paced. But I didn’t do that on Friday. Instead, I had somewhat of a shared moment with the field. My wife was out there with me, mowing and trimming, and when the work was apparently done for the day, her mower ran out of gas at the same time my trimmer ran out of line. We just looked at each other and thought, “Well, I guess something is telling us we’ve done enough work for the night.”  

So we stood there and looked at the field that was so much more beautiful at that moment than it was before we started, and without even realizing it, work was the furthest thing from my mind. We put our tools away and sat down for a minute, drinking a cold glass of water, and still no thoughts of work. The sun started setting and we poured ourselves a beer and talked about the land we will own ourselves in the future. We made plans about things that will make us happy, not about what will get us through to the next pay day. I wasn’t thinking about all the things that need done around the house. The work, the supplies, the bills. Upkeep on a yurt is basically non-existent. I had worked a full day, did some farm work, and still had time to sit and enjoy some peaceful moments with my wife.  

Then on Saturday, we drove to Greensboro to see my grandparents, cousin, and aunt. It was an amazing visit. My cousin Heather is the sister I never had, and she gets more beautiful every time I see her. And my grandparents… they continue to amaze me. The last time I saw my grandmother, she could barely stand on her own. Her hips are simply shot. But at one point I was standing with my grandfather as he was showing me a picture of his grandmother (who, I learned for the first time, was named Lucinda), and I looked up to see my grandmother running – RUNNING! – after Heather’s son Noah. I couldn’t believe it. She was laughing, she was playing, and most of all, she was happy. A little later, someone said to her, “Ruth, you don’t look so down today as you have lately.” “I have my family with me today,” she said.  

As we were getting ready to leave, I said to my grandfather, “Grandpa, I hope you have a great Father’s Day tomorrow, and I’m so happy I got to spend this day with you.” 

“Well,” he said, “if tomorrow is as good as today, I don’t know what I’ll do.”  

Regardless of whether it’s Father’s Day weekend or not, at that moment, I realized that I want to feel that way every day. I want to be thankful for days as they come and not dwell on what may or may not happen in the future. All I’ve done for years is dwell on the negative, and I feel like I have missed out on so many beautiful and happy thing. I don’t know that I will stop dwelling on things completely, or even if I will at all. Habits that are as entrenched as that one is for me take a long time to break. But I’m going to try.  

And I would be remiss if I didn’t thank Kelli and Sonia for the amazing Father’s Day dinner that they prepared for Tim and I. You all treated us like kings, and I appreciate it so much. (I also appreciate the Jonathan Franzen book, too!)  

And to my kids, thank you for letting me be your dad. You all make life worth living.  

And to my own dad, in whatever corner of Heaven you are in, I miss you more than you could know.

WWOOF'ing It

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a very strange feeling to have one of your kids so far away from you. Well, let’s be honest. It’s a strange feeling to have your kids out of your sight at all. But I’m talking far, far away. Like, another country type of far away.  

On Monday, Braedon flew to Ireland. Not with a group, or even with a companion. Just completely by himself. It was part of his graduation gift, going to Ireland and beyond. He will spend two weeks Wwoof’ing in Ireland, and then head to France before he catches a plane to Spain to see his best-friend-since-childhood who is now in the Navy and stationed there as a medic in a hospital on a Marine base.  

Oh, what is Wwoof’ing? Let me explain. It stands for World Wide Organization of Organic Farming. So let me back up a little.  

The first time we had ever heard of Wwoof’ing was right here on Idle Acres Farm. It’s a unique type of internship, where a farm owner hosts folks from anywhere in the world to stay on the farm and learn a trade. The Wwoofers don’t get paid; however, they stay on the farm for free, have meals provided to them, and learn beautiful things about the way our planet works in an agricultural sense. It’s not about free labor. It’s the furthest thing from it. It is a farm owner’s chance to share with others the thing about the world they love the most. It’s their chance to prove to others that they are doing something to change the world and that they want to help others to do the same. Some of the Wwoofers that Idle Acres has hosted in the past have remained friends of the family for many years now, and though they have gone on to do magnificent things in the world both personally and professionally, the connection they have to this farm and to us as individuals remains.  

Now, backtracking a little. A couple years ago, after I graduated from Kennesaw State’s MAPW program, I said to my wife, “I owe you guys more than I could ever repay. But I’ll try. Pick a vacation destination and we will go there.”  

With extreme naivety, I expected her to say the Gulf side of Florida or maybe skiing in Colorado. But there was no hesitation. “Ireland,” she said. And I said, “That far away, eh?” I was thinking about a really long flight when I hate flying. I was thinking about the expense of it, and I was thinking about how I was going to handle driving on the wrong side off the friggin’ road. But then we started planning it and I thought, “Hey, I could play golf on a course that is over 100 years old!” “Hey, we could see the Cliffs of Moher!” So I did… both of those.  

But those aren’t the things that I remember most. What sticks with me is our family being wholly together in what is quite possibly the most beautiful country in the world. For 10 days, not one smile faded, even when the Guinness flowed probably a little too heavily. For 10 days, there was bliss, there was magic, there were the Aran Islands and churches 2000 years old. We knelt at their weather-beaten altars. You can’t stand there and not do it. The power is just that real. There were sunsets behind castles and pubs spilling music. There were brutal games of Frisbee and nights under stars that seemed so close it was as if you could actually hold the handle of The Big Dipper. There were bike rides and kayaks and buskers singing in Gaelic. There was Saint Brigid’s well where I left a photograph of my late father in the hopes that Saint Brigid would bless his everlasting soul not in the holy sense, but simply because I felt her power and the blessings of her water. I touched the water in her well and, with a rosary in hand, crossed myself. I’m not even Catholic, but religion has no place in the waters of a saint. It’s just a silly title that we hang on things.  

And that is where Breadon is now. After that trip, someone in the family got the idea that he should go Wwoofing in Ireland when he graduated. I don’t remember who, but it doesn’t matter. He is in Ireland learning Irish gardening and standing on the grounds of the holiest of the holies. But more importantly, he is out there, at 18, and he is living. He is living his life one passport stamp at a time, and were it not for my pride in – and love for – him, I’d be raging with jealousy.  

But I never thought of the connection between what he is doing right now in Ireland and what occurs at Idle Acres Farm until I sat down to write this. I had just planned on writing about him in Ireland and explaining what Wwoofing was. It never occurred to me that, because of these 13 random acres in TheMiddleOfNowhere, North Carolina, our son is out there experiencing the world in a way he wouldn’t otherwise have. In a way his mother and I never have. In a way that I and so many others have only dreamed about. And here we are, sitting right in the very spot where it all began while he is there in Ireland. How did it happen that these 13 acres have spread so far, across continents and oceans and centuries of emotional history?  

There is no answer to that.  

But I will say this. God bless you Braedon Craig for not being afraid to live a little. I’ve been learning from you every day for eleven years now, and you always find a way to amaze me yet again. Soak in Ireland for be, bub. I wish I was there with you, but I’d just hold you back. You’re pretty amazing all on your own. I’ll just sit here on the farm where the ideas began and feel as close to you as maritime will allow, hoping the connections between land and dreams never fade.

 

 

Last Goodbye

 

In all likelihood, this is the last full day I will ever spend in our house.  

 

Bittersweet is an understatement. I’m smack in the middle of being excited about an unknown future, missing our beautiful home, and being a little upset at myself for allowing us to be house-poor for seven straight years. I’m sure I will fight that demon for a while. I’ve never been one to let the past go, and I hang onto even the slightest mistakes for far too long. But the past can’t be changed, and today I have to say goodbye to something that I have loved dearly for a long time now.  

 

When Kelli and I bought this house, it was our dream home. For me, maybe it was the impossible dream. I grew up in a small town in Ohio where my family owned a 742 square foot home. Until I was 20, semesters in the college dorms notwithstanding, I shared a room with my kid brother (who, I must say, went on to serve our country quite admirably in Iraq), sleeping in a bunk bed that caused me more concussions than any sporting event I’ve ever played. I knew no different.  

 

When I hit 21, I bought my first house. It was the same exact house, 742 square feet, with the only difference being the two bedrooms and one bath were on the left instead of the right. I paid $54,000 for it. When I was 24 I turned that into a rental and bought my second house, one that actually had an upstairs and a basement. It was the first time in my life I ever lived in a house that had a garage. I thought I had died and gone to Heaven. My friends and I started a band and built a studio in the basement, equipped it with Elvis Presley wallpaper border and called it Suspicious Minds Studios. We rocked the place, had great times, laughed, shook buttocks, grilled out at an alarming rate. It was all just vodka and rock shows. We later moved the ‘studio’ to the dining room because, well, what better dining room could a bachelor have? I thought that house was huge, and I felt like I was beginning to blossom quite well into adulthood. I felt successful. 

 

{Fast forward.} When all of the kids were at home, we needed the space. At the same time, there was certainly an element of pride in buying this house. My wife and I are incredibly hard-working people, and I felt like we deserved it. I felt that if we were going to work this hard, day in and day out, then by God we were going to have something to show for it. That’s the American way, right? So we paid top dollar for this place and never looked back. I’ve had neighbors on the same street tell me that our house should be in magazines. Kelli is a gifted designer and has made it beautiful, and we’ve all worked together to make it something incredible. (Pictures just don’t do it justice). But two things happened along the way. I guess you could call them, “Things that make you go Hmmmmm,” moments.  

 

One. This is basically the only home Annabel has ever known. We moved in right after she turned two, so she remembers nothing else. This house has a movie theater in the basement with seats that came from an actual movie theater from the 1940’s. When Annabel was five, one of our older girls got her first apartment and we went to help her move in. I noticed Annabel walking around, checking the place out. I thought she was just staking claim to her own space, knowing how spoiled she was by her older siblings and that, surely, she would have a room of her own there, too. But then she said, “Tawney, where is the movie theater?” Tawney said, “It doesn’t have one, punkin.” Annabel said, “Well, then where do you watch movies?”  

 

I didn’t grow up that way. Hell, I remember when my dad hit the three-digit lotto, won $147 and spent much less than that buying our first VCR. We were in Heaven! It was, I guess, the seed that would later grow into the current “what are we doing” plant.  

 

Two. My grandparents came down from Ohio to visit. My grandfather has been a minister his entire life, so he always needed space for other preachers and their families to stay for when they were in town as visitors. Their house, to me, was enormous. 21 rooms in that sucker. But the one time they came down to visit me, grandpa didn’t greet me with “hello” or “I missed you, son.” He said, “David Lee, this is a mansion!” (Pronounced main-shun in his mid-Kentucky drawl). My reaction was strange. I said, “Nah, grandpa. This is just an ordinary house. You should see some of the houses in the city. They would make this one look like a shack.” And though he paid me no mind at that moment, it was a moment I haven’t forgotten.  

 

But the fact is, I just love this house. We have so many memories here. We’ve always had Easter brunches, and the entire family would get together. The kids in their bright pastels, the adults with their midday Mimosa-induced smiles. We’ve had graduation parties, dinner parties, birthday parties, quiet nights by the fire. I’ve watched the girls gather around to paint nails or braid hair. I’ve watched Braedon grow up into an amazing man. We’ve had some killer Walking Dead binge-watching marathons. My wife and I have danced in the rain in the back yard, danced in our living room, and made Annabel cringe far too many times by making her watch us kiss each other and outwardly let everyone know how in love we still are.

 

Which is what makes all of this ok. I have the woman of my dreams. I have a family that I would lay my life on the line for. And if we ended up living in Lucinda for the rest of our lives, none of that love or any of those emotions would change. Because of that, I know that no matter what happens, we will be fine.  

 

Over the last few days, the focus of what I will miss has shifted. I’m not focused on my man cave or beautiful back yard. I’m going to miss my koi, and I’m going to miss Backpack, the squirrel that we nursed back to life after he fell from his nest and still comes to say hello every day. I’m going to miss the family of deer that come out of the woods and into the back yard. They make me think of my father. I’m going to miss the owls hooting, the falcon that I’ve only seen land on the bridge in our back yard once but that I’ve not since forgotten. I’m going to miss the hiking trails where herons swoop down in an unafraid manner, just to let you know that they’re there. I’m going to miss the cardinals that play in the Japanese Red Maple just outside my office window. They remind me of my father, too. I’ll miss the momma Robin who, for years now, has flown into my closed office window thinking she can get in. She’s the toughest and most persistent momma I’ve ever known. I’m going to miss the neighborhood dogs that their owners walk by our house all the time. I’m going to miss sitting on our porch at night, smoking cigars and drinking wine, and listening to the coyotes howling in the distance. I’m not going to miss going to bed every night and looking at the hole I created in the wall when I collapsed from stress and overworking myself. It’s such a constant reminder of that.  

 

Come to think of it, everything that I will miss is now nature related. It’s amazing how your focus in life can change like that. I’ll miss the nature here, but we are going to live on an organic farm where there will be even more nature around us. That part is exciting, and I can’t wait to live on Idle Acres Farm and see what is next in store for our lives.  

 

But just like books, our lives have chapters, and one is coming to an end today. I’m sure I will cry. I’m sure I will dearly miss our home. I’m sure that I will have my ups and downs when it comes to no longer being here.  

 

But I’m also sure that I will still drive away and let tomorrow have its day.

 

(Re)birth

In order to transfer everything we will need, we travelled to NC this past weekend, taking a truck-full of items. Outdoor chairs, a fire pit, cornhole boards. You know, the basics. We arrived around 11 pm Friday night and, as has become custom, shared a beer with Tim and his wife Sonia before calling it a night.

 

We woke to a crisp Saturday morning, the sunshine leaking through the windows and the lattice framing of the yurt, spilling diamond-shaped beams of light onto the floor. I walked outside to watch the morning come to life, watch the sun rise above the hill and the trees in the distance and shine a subtle reflection on Lucinda. It was the easiest I had woken up in years. I couldn’t wait to get outside.

 

My wife, Kelli, made coffee on the propane stove, and then we walked with Annabel over the hill and towards the field down below. The hill and the field are so green, so full of life. We check the blueberry trees and they are full of ripening berries. I wanted so badly to pick one and eat it, but they are still just babies and are not quite ready. Kelli checks the pear tree and shouts her excitement when she spots a couple baby pears, thankful the late frost didn’t kill the flowers before they bloomed into fruit. Annabel had run ahead of us and into the fenced in area where the chicken coops are. The gate was opened for they are allowed to roam the farm as they wish, and Annabel yells, “Daddy, Mommy. Look!” She runs to the edge of the fence where we were standing and holds out her hands. She is holding two chicken eggs, and smiling her little girl smile.
 

Further down the field where the turkeys live, we spot the new additions to the farm we had not yet met. There are several American Blackbelly sheep babies and a beautiful new dog. Her name is Elsie, a ten week-old Maremma puppy bred to protect the turkeys. They have lost many turkeys over the years, mainly by the claw of a relentless bobcat. But the hope is that Elsie will change this. She is snow white, and though still a baby it is obvious she will be a very large dog. She must live in the field to bond with the turkeys, that way she knows that they are hers, and that they are her job. But, oh, how sweet is she. She rubbed noses with Sairy, our Schnauzer, hopped around and let us pet her and rub her belly.
 

Until she heard a turkey gobble. Then, it was as if we disappeared. Her focus was fierce, her attention unwavering.

I think she is going to do just fine.

 

We walked back to the house and into the mud room, and we find even more babies. There’s an incubator with baby turkeys. They are four days old. Such furry little klutzes, they are. Sometimes as they walk, they lose their balance and fall over like they are drunk. They lay on their back and try to flop back over like a turtle on its shell. The ones that don’t make it back to their feet, we pick up and right them again, and then watch as it goes to peck the eyes of another little chick. They are such strange little beings, but are so precious. But we rounded Annabel back up and headed to the yurt, not wanting to disturb Tim, Sonia, and the kids so early. There was work to do on the yurt, anyway.
 

While Kelli was cleaning inside the yurt, I weed-eated until the thing ran out of gas. When it did, we could hear a ruckus going on down by the house, so we went down to check it out. There is a shed outside where they keep the incubator, and more baby turkeys have hatched. But as they tried to move the baby turkeys around, a whole flock of chicks get lose. How, I don’t know, but the four of them are digging themselves around underneath the shed that only their arms can fit under, trying to round up these loose and distraught turkey chicks. We get down to help the and, suddenly, there are seven of us with really long sticks trying to herd a shitload of loose baby turkeys out from under the shed. Their cries are echoing in the beams that form the foundation of the shed, their mouths wide open as they run aimlessly around. We’d push one close to the edge, then the little bastard would hop the stick and go hide again where we couldn’t reach him. Kaleb yells, “I got one!” and I look up just in time to see him yank one by the tiny ankle and pull it out from under the shed. “There’s still three more, guys!” said Kaleb in his sweet little high-pitched voice. “We have to get them. Hurry, hurry!” Annabel falls in a bed of poison ivy, so I tell her to hit the showers and the game is now down to six players.
 

I grab a bigger stick and I start to hit my groove. I guide one chick straight over to Kelli, who reaches her hand as far as she can and pulls the chick to safety. Oh yeah. We got this, I say. The next one is rescued just as easily, but the last little bird jumps up into those framework beams and disappears. We can’t get our hands there, and the beams block the sticks. I take my stick and try to bang the beams, trying to scare the little chick out. But I’ve completely lost sight of him. “Where is he?” I say. “I don’t know!” said Kaleb. “I can’t see him!” Then, as if magically, the damn thing just walks out and into Sonia’s hands as she says, casually, “I got him.” Saved at last.
 

We all walk to the front and look at the chicks that are once again nestled all snug in their beds, and then I said, “So had did that happen again?”

 

No one answered me.

 

Annabel is out of the shower by this point, so we take her up to the yurt for a change of clothes and more work. I refill the weed eater and, just as I start, Tim drives by in his little pickup and drives it up toward the hill where the tractor sits. I run up to see if he needs help. It won’t start, so he was going to push it down the hill but a gentleman I’ve never met before hops on and suddenly the thing starts rolling backwards. Tim and I did the only thing we knew to do: push. Slowly, it picks up momentum and as it does the hill is looking steeper and steeper. I became nervous. It started rolling faster and faster and so instead of pushing we tried to pull but, as manly as we are, we are no match for a tractor with a head of steam.

 

“Tim,” I said, “I’m not sure we can stop this thing.”
 

“Max,” said Tim, “this is beyond our ability to stop it now.”
 

“Ok,” said Max. “Let me throw it into gear.”

 

So he does and the tractor comes to a screeching halt, but I don’t. I slam into the tractor belly-first, but I can’t show any signs of pain. But it is at this point where I think, Good Lord, and we don’t even officially live here yet!
 

The tractor finally makes it to the bottom of the hill and we help Max load it onto his trailer. At this point, I realize that the tractor is now Max’s, and I get sad a little. The tractor was such a beautiful part of our view, and I had planned on sitting atop it with my laptop, writing, allowing the silence of the field to overcome me and take me wherever my writing wanted to go. But, I’m also happy that Max will either restore the old thing or use its part for another. Either way, there will be at least one more tractor in this world that will again come to life.

And yet, the craziest moment of the day was when Tim said we had to hurry to get to the dump before they closed at 2 pm. I thought, it’s not even 2 yet? It felt like at least 6. I look at my phone for the first time that day, and the time said 12:28. Holy shit, I thought. Time goes by so slow here. And I took in this deep breath and stood still for a moment. I stood still. Peacefully. While I stood still, I wondered how time could actually change the rate in which it passes, simply because of where you are.

 

That night, after dinner, the whole clan came up to the yurt and we built a small fire. Tim, with beer in hand, lifts it up and says, “The yurt lives again.” He seems grateful, and so do I. Being the literalist that I am, I wondered how a yurt could ‘live.’ But then I thought about the babies everywhere, I thought about the blooming fruit and the growing puppy, the feathery turkey chicks and the eggs Annabel carried. And then I thought, how could there be anything here that isn’t living.  
 

It was such a peaceful thought. And maybe, just maybe, this yurt will teach me how to live again, too.