Buffered by a young wreath of poplar, silver birch, spruce, and dogwood, my family and I built a home on one hectare of field and woodland in the crook of a meadow. It’s sort of like a nook, in fact. And we consider it a glade too.
Farmers used to work the soil on this land. According to an elder in our community, inhabitants of a foregone generation attempted to farm the land but abandoned the activity because the soil was infertile. “They couldn’t make it there! That’s important to keep in mind,” she once said to me.
Like every nook and cranny on this wild planet, our nook has a history. When something new arises on the planet never before seen, it comes with a name, but Nature keeps this name silent. That is, until it is discovered by the Namers; that’s us.
I’ve always been fond of a home with a name because it signifies a history.
Our range is known locally as Skedaddle Ridge because this is where American conscripts came (“skedaddled”) to escape the draft during the American civil war. It is technically a part of the Appalachian mountain system, a range that extends from the island of Newfoundland all the way to the state of Alabama.
Inadvertently we join the ranks of individuals who sought a place where they can be left alone to their own devices.
I have yet to etch our home’s name above our entryway. When I do, I shall post a photograph.
To read about the nuts and bolts of my homestead, check back soon.
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