When Trae and I purchased our 27 acres last fall, we fell in love with the land. We loved its fields and its woods, its spring and its apple trees, its grape vines and thick-planked sheds. Neighbors told us about old photographs taken here -- a steam-powered, mule-drawn sawmill sitting on the large flat rock beside the road, someone's grandmother sitting in a wheelbarrow on that rock when she was a baby.
People have taken care of this spot for generations, and it shows. The soil is rich, fertilized by chickens and cows and deliberate gardens. The rock walls, though untended for years, are well-built. The pear trees are enormous and the peaches, hardy. And this spring, as the dormant plants have slowly awoken, we've had some very welcome surprises.
We've seen a few species of trilliums, wild ginger, may apples, bloodroot, and wild geraniums, and around the house there are hundreds of irises and daffodils. We had no idea that any of this existed, and this spring has felt like an exciting discovery.
Among the many projects we have put on our work list this year is to come up with a name for this place. We're not the first ones to be here and we won't be the last, but while we're living on it we'd like to make it our own.