Kindred Spirits

The earliest deed I’ve found for our property dates 1870, when the father of a black family living in our house purchased land across the road.

I’ve seen the census records from before the Civil War with Stephen Sellars listed as a slave, then after the war, with him as the head of household. At one point there were seven children living in the one room cabin now our living room, including a daughter named America. The eldest son later raised his family in the cabin, too, which he covered up and added onto sometime in the early 1900s. Len, “Uncle Rabbit” as old timers recall him, and his wife Bettie lived here through the 1920’s.

A succession of tenants occupied the house until the early 1930s when the next family, the Tramels settled in. They were white, a farm family, raised their own brood here, owned the place until they could no longer take care of themselves, then we purchased the property in the 1970s. We got to know them through their children as they returned to visit the old homestead over the years. All good, decent people.

The land to this farm are steep, the soil poor, the house is set against a bluff facing north so it’s damn cold in winter. But there’s always a summer breeze, and the view to the west of the valley and intertwined hills always invites you to pause and appreciate God’s many gifts.

Thirty years on, I know why they all stayed for generations, and how a space like this, tranquility base, can shape your world.

Morning Glories

The heat continues but you get used to it.

And it doesn’t really own the land until late afternoon, when the sun rides high, everything still.

So the mornings are for enjoying, before the heat grows so relentless.

I start the day with a long stroll along our country road, at or soon after sunrise. Our three dogs lead the way, so deliberately at times it’s as if they are taking me for a walk.

One direction, our course leads down a shaded tunnel of trees overhanging the way, as we gradually descend the hill past timeline bluffs of chert, slate, then limestone. The other, a long ascent to where the road runs clear past homes and gardens, a pond and field of horses.

Either course, patches of blue and purple flowers, starred centers, interrupt the green. Morning glories, well named. I’ve tried gathering and scattering the seeds over the years without success. The vines have a mind of their own, take root where they want, celebrate their hour, then curl away.

Pass that way another hour, you’d have no idea what subtle splendor greeted the day.

Fleeting Stars

I awoke at 4 the other night I headed outside for a glimpse of the yearly Perseid meteor showers, always billed as one of summer’s top celestial events. It was supposed to be prime viewing time but I only caught a couple of brief streaks of light, typical of my experience.

It’s the random, unexpected sightings which have the most impact, and have most thrilled me: the sudden streak of a glowing fireball dancing across a winter’s night, it’s tail slowly fading into the darkness; the northern painted hues of the aurora borealis pushing so far south.

One of the charms which originally attracted me to the country, and continues to hold me here is the night sky. To gaze into the depth of space and marvel at the billion points of light, the glowing cloud of the Milky Way, and the planets’ procession through the Zodiac. The sky was so clear the other night I could recognize the red glow of Mars and see, or believe I was seeing the white spec near Jupiter of one of its moons.

Our house is situated in such a way that our own bowl of night is protected from the glare of “security” lights which have become common fixtures on rural homes everywhere. Despite low crime rates, people feel the need to protect themselves in the harsh glare of encroachment on the night sky.

I guess they have never taken the time to step into the shadows, look up an discover the same boundless heavens which inspired and humbled our ancestors.

If they had, they would occasionally turn off those lights, and not have them burn from dusk through dawn and relegate the stars and stargazers to darker, rarer corners of the night.

Dog Days

When you hear the cicadas chirping at sunrise you know it's going to be a hot day.

104 in the shade yesterday afternoon, retreat to the comfort of the AC.

Wasn't always that way. 25 years ago you'd still see the farmers in their bib overalls and straw hats working their fields, tracing a mule, riding a tractor no matter what the weather. At night folks would sleep on the front porch hoping to catch a breeze.

Creeks would be filled with folks of all ages looking for relief. It wasn't unusual then not to have running water in the houses and cabins up the hills and hollers. Creek baths were so common you'd think nothing of someone lathering up, as long as they were downstream. Hospitable as folks here are they'd leave their bar of soap or bottle of shampoo behind for the next person to come along.

If you forgot yours, and really needed that bath, you'd be glad to find it.

My Tennessee

I'm starting this blog to celebrate our great state of Tennessee and to let others know what a fine place it is to call home. And, as someone who cares deeply about this state and region, it's rich history, its scenic beauty and good people, I hope to make this forum to instill in others that same sense of pride.

I'd like to celebrate the many resources Tennessee offers whether you're already a Volunteer, seek a great setting to raise your family, or are looking for affordable and comfortable retirement. In accompishing all that, I also hope to be a voice for preotecting all that is precious and worth preserving about our state.

I'm a New York City native and have lived in the Tennessee hills since 1977. Home is a restored and rebuilt log cabin where my wife and I have rasied our family. The photo above is the view from our front yard. I'll post pictures of it throughout the year, for that valley continually showcases the cycle of seasons.

Welcome to My Tennessee.