To Build A Log Cabin

Available in print from iUniverse

If your plans of escaping to a simpler life in the country harbors dreams of living in a simple log cabin you built yourself, I want to assure you it’s entirely possible. 

In fact, I can even show you how, or at least inspire you in a book I did on my experiences with four differently log cabin projects.

Growing up in New York City, living in a log cabin seemed the remotest of possibilities. But when my wife and I moved to Tennessee in our early 20s, the log cabin became a fixtureand focus of our lifestyle. 

Hidden within our old farmhouse in the scenic hills was an authentic one room log cabin we later restored and built our home around.

When It came time to expand our home for our growing family, I had no choice but resort to the old methods, butting poplars off our place, hewing them with a broadaxe and adze, cutting the dovetail notches locking them all together.

Later, when I needed a peaceful office for my writing career away, I built another cabin. Using rounded logs, with saddle notches,it was an easier project, and is where I’m writing this today. I had an opportunity to expand on it by taking down and resurrecting yet another original cabin, this one so early there were carved wooden pegs holding down the floorboards.

Available as an eBook from Smashwords

When we started the first of these projects my wife and I had absolutely no carpentry skills or experience, only youthful idealism and exuberance. Through hard work, determination and patience we saw each project through.

If we could do it, so can you!!!

In fact, I was so proud of our accomplishments, I combined my love of log cabins with my writing career in a book I self published a few years ago. A Home From The Woods tells the story of all four of these projects. Part of each section is a narrative, our story, to give you an idea of what it’s like and the rewards that come with these projects. The other part of each section provides more straightforward “how-to “ advice which can be adapted to your own projects: restoring an old log cabin the hand-hewn log cabin; building with rounded logs; and taking down and rebuilding an original log cabin.

I just published the ebook version of the book published through Smashwords, and the printed version has been available through iUniverse for several years. You can also read excerpts on our Atticcorner website.

If you like what you see, and want to purchase a copy of a Home from The Woods, please click the pictures or  these links for the ebook version or for the print version.

Thanks and good luck!

World's Biggest Treehouse in Crossville

Tennessee has all sorts of hidden treasures, and this past weekend we explored one: the world’s biggest treehouse, just off Interstate 40 in Crossville up in the Cumberland Plateau.

Words and pictures can’t fully convey the marvel of what Horace Burgess has created at the end of Beehive Road there. Inspired by God, since 1993 he’s been working on this expansive complex built on an around a towering white oak entirely of scrap and donated lumber.  The house itself sprawls up and out in all directions, much like that massive tree.

It’s like a fun house on a grand scale with crooked, winding stairs, halls to nowhere, many rooms, layers of decks and ample seating area throughout.  If you climb all the way to the top, you can ring the bells in the bell tower.

At center of this sprawling complex is a chapel which commands a moment of pause and reflection on all one man has achieved with  materials which would have otherwise been thrown away. And he’s opened this labor of love to all, free of charge.

If you go, bring a marker to show you’ve been there, and don’t miss the donation box near the winding stair climb along the tree into the complex. 

His generous spirit deserves a little support; if he asked, many would be more than willing to pay for the privilege of rambling though the treehouse

You can read an article and see some great shots here

A Good Neighbor...

       ...is hard to find. They find you, or you find them, by chance. You choose your place, and once you do, you’re stuck with the neighbors, for better or worse.

       We’ve had the good and the bad. 

       I’d rather speak of the good. The bad speak for themselves by their lack of civility, and how their ways intrude on the peace of your life.

       Here in the country, a neighbor is more than someone on the other side of the fence. A good neighbor is a lifelong friend, someone you can turn to or depend on with confidence. He or she will  they’ll do what they can, whatever you ask. A good neighbor always has time for a friendly word, a smile and a wave. Good neighbors become members of your extended family, people you cherish for who they are.

       We lost a good neighbor last week. He fell in his wintry yard, struck his head, and couldn’t get back up as the life bled out of him. 77 years old. Last time I saw him I could see his health was failing. Last time we spoke we shared a laugh, wished each other well.

        I tried to express my sense of loss with these words, in his book

         Our valley will never seem quite as full without him

        but always richer for him having been a part of our lives.

       Rest in peace, Price.

An Unusual Swirl

        I’m always watching the sky for signs of approaching weather, interesting cloud formations, the chance of a rainbow, and I’ve seen them all.

But I never saw them all rolled up into one unusual phenomenon, as I did Sunday night. As a heavy thunderstorm was approaching from the West, I  first noticed at the very edge of the storm cloud an unusual stream of color, a mix of pink and blue. More like a ribbon than a rainbow.

I watched it for a while, and over time the colors kind of swirled together, as if they were being stirred up/ Reminded me of the great spot on Jupiter, then it took on the shape more like an eye, with streams of color visible above and below it, swirling around a focal point.

The pictures don’t do it justice, of course, but at at least convey’s a sense of what I saw. Click for the larger picture and you’ll have a better idea) Not sure what it is. My best guess is sunlight being dispersed through clouds at different levels, at different angles, to create this multi-hued sense of motion. That’s my guess, anyway.

But being so unusual, I took this “eyebow” as some good omen.

The Smithville Jamboree

It’s Jamboree time here!

This time of year Smithville, county seat of our county, invites everyone in for the Fiddler’s Jamboree and Crafts Festival. This is the 39th year for the event. It’s the biigst thing that happens all year in these parts, draws tens of thousands over its two day run.

Young cloggers take the stage to dance to some good old time music
at the The Smithville Fiddler's Jamboree and Crafts Festival.

The Jamboree was our first introduction to the area way back in 1977. We’ve been here that long. A third of a century.

Over those years I developed a real fondness for the music the Jamboree celebrates: old time bluegrass and mountain music still popular throughout the South. All acoustic: guitar, banjo, mandolin, upright bass, dobro, dulcimer, and the fiddle of course. 

I now know many of the old time standards contestants play during the various events. Can even strum a few myself on the guitar. One of the joys of country living is to sitting on the front porch in the evening, watching the hills and hollows slip into darkness, strumming some chords on the guitar.

There was a time when that was the only regular entertainment folks in these parts could enjoy, after a long hard day’s work. The Jamboree helps keep those traditions alive.If you're ever in these parts the weekend nearest the Fourth of July it’s worth the trip to Smithville. AN dif you don’t know what clogging is, well, y’all come.

Huckleberry season

The soil here on the ridge where I situated my office is highly acidic. Without a good dose of lime and fertilizer it’s not conducive to much in the way of fruits and vegetables, except for the native wild blueberry, better known as the huckleberry.

It’s a deep woods plant here, usually an intermittent shrub found in laurel thickets. Years ago one of those hucklberry bushes established itself in the woods I later cleared as a garden spot. I somehow missed it, I’m happy to say.
It’s right at the very edge of the vegetable patch outside my office, and thriving in the full sun in a way it never could in the woods.

This time of year, early to mid June, it’s fruiting in abundance. Takes a lot of work to gather a cupful of these pea-sized blueberries, but I’m rarely that determined. Whenever the mood strikes, I’m more likely to take a break from my desk, step outside and nip a handful or so. Then, pop them in the mouth for a sweetly tart bit of refreshment.

There’s more huckleberries to be picked every day until the season run its brief course. Plenty to satisfy me and the parade of birds which make their way to that bush throughout the day for the seasonal treat we share.

Funny how time slips away...

That song came to mind when I checked on my last entry. That’s a thing about blogging. Hard to keep at it, especially when it’s more of a personal journal, than anything else.

But time does slip away until you realize it’s gone. Thirty one years ago this weekend the eldest of our children was born, at home in our log cabin in these Tennessee hills. Back in those days we were still fresh from the city, enamored with a lifestyle that was more like camping than anything we’d experienced.

By the time our son arrived we had electricity in the house, a bulb and an outlet in each of the four rooms. We still drew our water from a well with an old windlass and bucket. And the boy, like all of our children, was delivered by a midwife. My wife’s decision, home birth,

The birth of any child is a magical moment, one of life’s simple and essential miracles. The first time you experience it completely overwhelms you with emotion and appreciation of the ones you love.

It was a cool night in May, much like we’re having now. My wife was overdue. The daughter of the neighbor up the road had delivered her baby a day earlier. They shared with my wife a bit of their womanly wisdom: if the baby’s ready, a little castor oil will bring it on.

At 9 my wife took a tablespoon or two then lay down.‘ Around midnight her water broke, and then began our wonderful ordeal. She suffering the pain leading to the miracle event, helped by her mother, sister and our midwife. I was more or less the amazed bystander. At 3:15 our son officially arrived.

I came away convinced that if it were up to men to have babies there wouldn’t be any. There’s nothing in our life histories to prepare us for that kind of pain.

But what a reward motherhood must be.

I can still hear the first scream of our newborn son at this world. And I can still see the shriveled old man in the new born babe fresh from the womb, a life of possibilities.

We had five more children, all at home. Four of those six were born here in our log cabin in the woods.

31 years later the youngest is just about to enter eighth grade, his nearest brother graduating high school Friday night.

31 years raising children. It makes a house a home.

And it’s funny how the time slips away.....

An Easy Hike to Burgess Falls

My hiking buddy and I spent a rainy Sunday afternoon at Burgess Falls, a state natural area bordering Putnam and White counties near here. It’s a great place fora family trek to the outdoors any time of year, but because of the weather we had it to ourselves. Passed only one other hiker during our three hours there.

There’s a couple of short trails. The main trail, mile and a half loop, winds along the Falling Water River and three small water falls. The main event is Burgess Falls itself, a picture perfect waterfall. You can climb an enclosed stairway along the bluff, then a rocky trail down to t the base of the falls. In summer, it’s a great place to swim, or just get cooled in the refreshing mist.

We hiked the river as far down as we could and past the remnants of two hydro-electric power plants which once provided electricity for nearby Cookeville. The first of these, nearest the falls, is pretty dangerous as the concrete floor ahas rotted through. Stay on the trail. The foundation of the second, further down stream nearby, is still intact, and there’s odd pieces of high equipment lying around for your speculative pleasure—try and figure out how they were used.

Back on top, you can follow the service road back, and there’s a ridge top trail look that leads you to some nice vistas of the gorge below.It’s a flat run through the woods. Both the river trail and service road trail have one steep climb, otherwise it’s a n easy jaunt in the woods for hiker’s young and old.
At the parking lot there’s picnic shelters and a children’s playground.
All in all, Burgess falls is a nice place to spend an afternoon, with some great scenery, in any season.

The Thaw....

Finally a day that feels like early March. Actually it’s been warming a few days now but we’re finally hitting stride after what has been an unusually cool winter. Not that we had a lot of snow, but the two small snows we had lingered for days as temperatures barely pushed past freezing.

In the woods, I’ve got my sap buckets set out on the maples. Been making syrup for more than a week now, we probably have a solid quart of maple syrup— that would mean I’ve gathered at least 40 quarts of sap. There’s a 40 to one ratio of sap to syrup, so that means we’ve been doing a lot of boiling.

Process pretty easy: bore a hole into maple tree about two inches, insert some sort of spigot or pout to catch and direct the sap into a bucket. gather sap at the end of the day and boil it down.That’s all there is to making maple syrup. This year I tapped five or six trees.

Over the weekend the ground actually thawed enough that I could fire up my old tiller and turn my garden sports. Not much of a gardener really, but it gives me a real sense of reward to sow a few seeds each spring, then watch the grow. And the harvest — no matter what it is, when you grow something yourself — it always tastes better.

Ghosts of the Morning

ghosts of the morning
dance lightly from the hills
weaving in the shadows
of yesteryday's dreams

on a lone country road
I go stalking the promise
that led so far from my home

through the dewdrops and drizzle
no echo or thunder, just an isolated storm
and the sound of my footsteps
over gravel and stone

In the pluck of the banjo, the harmonica note
there’s a sadness within every song
though I sing out the glory
praise and thanks to my maker
I realize, too, I’ll be leaving one day
and there’ll be a ghost of the morning
rising from the valley for me

now, in the autumn of years
how golden the springtime, how precious the summers,
all my life’s moments, so dear
but when my rapture comes
I’ll gladly surrender
the sorrows and joys that carried these bones

as this morning awakens
and in all days that follow
there’ll be deer in the meadows
birds in the trees
sunshine, flowers, rain and release
for a lifetime spent chasing
the ghosts of the morning
for some hint of what it all means

off the beaten path....

For the past 10 months, in my capacity as a writer, I’ve been working with a group of local artists to promote their activities and annual fall tour, coming up this weekend, the Off The Beaten Path Studio Tour.

Aptly named, by inference it also describes the lifestyles they and we have chosen by living here in rural Tennessee. I guess to some our landscape of deep woods, hills and hollows, creeks and dirt roads might sound idyllic. It’s a way of life, like any other with its own challenge and rewards.

I think, though, there’s something we all draw from our surroundings, an abiding peace against the chaos that so often seems to define modern life. Sure it intrudes this far, but then there’s the landscape, and buckets of stars at night to re-orient our personal compass.

We chose to be here, accepted the good and bad of rural life. And though we all aspire to the financial rewards success in our respective arts may bring, there’s a success we already enjoy in choosing our way and making a life on our terms. I guess that’s the most important thing to be found by those who wander “off the beaten path.”

I’m getting older now, and over the past summer I’ve done a lot of reflecting on the life we’ve made for ourselves here. It’s not been easy, and economic hardship is one of the realties of trying to make your way in a creative endeavor so far removed from the maddened crowd.

But there’s a personal Utopia that can be realized in places like this, as well. As long as you don’t infringe on your neighbors, you’re free make life on your terms, whatever they be, wherever you see North.

For those who follow their hearts, a fulfilling proposition

Motor City

I’ve been lax this summer about writing. My mind has been elsewhere, preoccupied.

When we first moved here we heard a lot of talk about Detroit and Michigan from the locals. Most of them had family up there, or had migrated there for a spell themselves and returned. Before during and after World War II people from here left the farm for the promise of factory jobs in the north. Any way to make a living seemed like the promised land for those who’d grown up poor and could only look forward to more prospects f the same. Those who left were either ambitious, or had no land and no options other than moving away from here.

We learned, too, Tennessee never was far from their heart. These folks would return yearly in many cases, just to be back home, sit in a familiar porch swing and look out on a vista they knew as well as the back of the hand. When they reached retirement age many turned South for the lifestyle which no longer existed. It had changed with them, some remained others eventually decided they liked the life they found up North better, and returned to it. A few never truly found a sense of pace. They longed for they old homestead, but they couldn’t stand to be away from the excitement and choices of the city life for too long.

In its day, though, the good thing about Detroit was it was a place to dream to. This year, with unemployment high, there are no Detroits. People are getting by, and it’s somebody else’s problem until you’re out of work.

The 49ers, and friends

Went to a “49ers” party” the other night, the honored host being one born that year and turning 60 a few weeks back. Seems like that’s nice way of casting that milestone event.

The party was also a reunion of sorts, gathering of locals and a coming home for many people who used to call this area home, and retain some nostalgic attachment to the area. A few guests traveled a long ways to be here.

Back in the early 1970s this area, which had remained pretty true to its Appalachian roots, saw the beginnings of a wave of immigration unlike anything that could have been expected or seen before.

Young kids with long hair and a heartfelt commitment to live a more independent lifestyle than what they’d brought up in, close to the land, started buying up old farms to make their homes. The honored guest of the party and his wife were among the very first, if not the original of what became know as the Dry Creek hippies. And whether or not young people who moved to the area through the rest of the decade were truly hippies, they were regarded as such.

When we arrived here in 1977 from NYC, I remember how startled I was when somebody asked me if I was one of “them hippies”: To him, I fit the part: long hair and a beard, young wife in tow, her long blond hair parted down the middle, with fashion sense leaning toward blue jeans and overalls, flannel and L’il Abner boots..

But when the question was putto me, I had to ask “What’s a hippie?” to find out what he meant. To me, from NYC, the hippies were a fad and fashion which had run its course years earlier.

”You know, one of them people that all lives in the same house, none of them takes no baths nor goes to work.” the old man explained.

That’s the idea some people had about hippies—any young person who came here with a bit of an education, it seems— for a while, And some still use the term, sometimes with implied derision.

Had they looked at crowd gathered at this party, though, they would discover those same kids have grown into outstanding citizens who have enriched the area in many ways. Many are involved in the arts, all work and are responsible citizens, They take great pride in their children and if they’re lucky enough yet, grandchildren, and the wonderful part of Tennessee where we’ve made our homes and lives.

And forget all the free love stuff: at one point I was standing with two other guys, including the host, and collectively we had more than 100 years of married life, each with his wife more than 30 years.

We’re all part of the landscape now.

Savage Gulf redux

We were so enamored with our march visit to the Stone Door at Savage Gulf we made a return trip this weekend. This time, we took the trail through the door, then down to and through the gulf, and back up along the same rim trail we followed on previous visit. Trees all full now, couldn’t see nearly as much down in the gulf from any of the cliffs.

Total hike came in around 10 miles, including a spur to Ranger Falls in the bottom. Well worth it. The gulf trail is a little challenging, both at descent, then at the end in the long ascent out to Alum Campsite. Worst of it the long climb out at the end. Day we went weather cool, but on a hot summer’s day there’s ample opportunity to swim along the trail.

After winding thought he woods trail lads to a boulder-strewn wash. At very bottom there’s a spur trail to Ranger Falls, well worth the .4 mile trek. Saw many signs of high water during recent heavy rains, so this could be dangerous on days prone to late afternoon thunderstorms that live up to gully-washer label. The falls is wide and disappears off to the right. Very nice.


From there the trail resumes. Next point of interest identified on map as “sink.” On the left, a small waterfall, likely a trickle in drier months. From the right the stream rolls over several cascades, before disappearing. Good setting to cool off.

From the sink, the trails parallels the stream for a good ways. Scenic with sound as water tumbles over boulders then gathers in many small pools. Finally the trail breaks to the right and begins the long climb out, toughest part of the hike.

At the top, Alum, caught the rim trail back to Stone Door, then the ranger station. Pretty much a level hike,with several scenic bluffs. In a couple of places the trail winds along the edge of the cliff, with a straight drop, so caution is advised.

Nice hike for any season, and we had the place pretty much to ourselves the entire run. Should be spectacular in the fall.

Our Tennessee

When I woke up 33 years ago yesterday, Tennessee was not on my horizon.

My father-in-law to be drove all night from his Nashville home to NYC for our wedding that Friday afternoon. And at one point after the ceremony and during the celebration he pulled my wife and I aside and suggested we consider moving Tennessee.

“Beautiful country, a fresh start,” advised the Brooklyn native. We already knew we wanted out of the city, and had started browsing Strout Realty catalogs in search for a few acres of our own.

The following spring, after he bought a 12 acre “farm” as a retirement site, he contacted us about Tennessee again. This time the pitch included mention of an old farmhouse on his place, he had no intention of using, but we could buy it if we like. It “might” be an old log cabin he advised, and much in need of restoration.

We left NYC behind the summer of ’77. Tennessee’s been home ever since. We’ve raised six kids in the cabin we restored and added onto, and set our roots deep on our patch of a few hillside acres.

We’ve been married 33 years, and Tennessee is where we’ve made our life together.

A wedding day is always an occasion for making memories. Little did we know where a casual suggestion would lead, and all it would entail for our future.

A battle once here...

Last Friday was the 169th anniversary of the Battle of Snows Hill. The Civil War skirmish took place along our road the morning of April 3, 1863, involved as many as several thousand troops. I’ve got a copy of the New York Times from later that month which has a front page headline and account of the battle.

The story is based on dispatches from a correspondent traveling with the Union Army of the Cumberland. As much an anecdotal account of the battle and its aftermath as the actual skirmish. Looking out at these hills, it’s hard to imagine soldiers racing through here. chased by minie and cannon balls.

Over the years I’ve done a lot of research on the battle, also combed the hills with a metal detector. Found shards of cannon balls, used and unused lead shot of every size and description, breastworks and fox holes. A friend once found a complete parrot shell that had hit the road embankment, drove into the dirt where its fuse was extinguished. When he found it it cracked open in half, exposing the grape shot and powder as if cut in half.

But i think the luckiest find was made by my son Marcus. He was 11 or 12, walking through the woods near our house, metal detector under arm, when he found a union boot spur sticking up out of ground.

Savage Gulf

Finally made it to the Savage Gulf, part of the South Cumberland Recreation Area, in Tennessee’s outstanding state park system. Been wanting to visit for years. Worth the trip, only about 45 miles away.

We visited the Stone Door end, took the Big Creek Rim and Laurel trails as a loop, after hiking through the Stone Door. Started down into the gulf but changed our minds, as it was already midday. Also took the short loop to Laurel Falls from the visitors center. Total hiked, about eight miles in a leisurely five hours.

Ranger station well set up with ample paved parking, bathrooms, sign in/map station and . Excellent free map of all trails and sites. Trail from there to first overlook paved. Get a nice view of the gulf.


Then the hike through the woods begins to Stone Door. That alone worth it, especially the climb up and down the many steps through the door. How many Indians, poneers and tourists have passed that way?

Word of caution to anyone with children venturing even this far. The Stone Door trail leads to first of many bluffs—cliffs might be a more apt description—with a straight drop off the edge into the gulf. Watch where you walk, and keep those kiddies close at hand.

From top of Stone Door the Big Creek Rim Trail begins. It’s a three mile amble through the woods, returning again and again the the natural rock outcroppings overlooking the gulf. Some
breathtaking views of woods, gulf, and trail far down below, the roar of the river cascades shouting up to you. Buzzards saunter in and out of view, gliding their thermals. Early spring out, so the gulf dotted with occasional splotches of maple reds and oranges and yellow greens of early blooming poplars.

Not crowded at all so we took a break from the trail on one of these bluffs, had the whole gulf to ourselves, just watch and listen and take it all in. Kings of all we surveyed.

Trail eventually leads to the Alum Gap campground, primitive campsites, permits required.

From there our loop back followed the Laurel Trail another three miles back to the Ranger station. An easy, uneventful walk, save for the stands of mountain laurel and patches of club moss breaking up the woods. Best for late April or May when the laurel is in all its glory.

We had a great time, and only touched all there is to see or hike at Savage Gulf. Next time we’ll visit the other end of the Gulf, at the Savage Ranger Station, and sample the trails there. Probably wait until fall, when the gulf runs with color.

An afternoon on the Millennium Trail

We spent Sunday afternoon hiking the CClayborn/Merritt Ridge Millennium trail at Edgar Evans State Park in DeKalb COunty. Total trail is supposed to be about 81/2 miles, we probably shaved a mile off in the four hours we hiked. It's a pretty easy walk most of the way, however the last 5 mile loop can get to be pretty strenuous.

This is the longest trail in the park and it begins with an easy realtively flat run of about half a mile or so. That leads to an old homestead sitting right at the edge of a finger of the lake. The homestead was likely situated there for the fresh water source no longer apparent.. All that remain are large limestone front and back steps, a pile of chimney rock, stone pillars which define the shape of the house, and the foundation of a spring house or root cellar. Another pile of chimney stone suggests a log cabin once stood about 500 feet away. On our way there Pete found an Indian game stone.

Anyway the trail is divided into two loops: the Clayborn loop about 2 1/2 miles long; and the Merrit Ridge loop another five -1/2 miles. The trails lead through through dense woods and cedar thickets as it climbs from holler toridge then down along the lake.. But most of the time you're in the ones. As you passhomesteads long abandoned like the one just described , now overgorwn with woods, you can't help but wonder what life must have been likeway back when....

I'd recommend this hike for the winter months. Nice views of the lake are surely blocked out when the trees are in full bloom.Winter, though, though you get a long view of the lake in several places

The Merritt Ridge Trail traces a peninsula as it juts out into the water.At its closest(about the halfway mark foir the hike) it'sa 70 foot drop to the water below. Nearby, there's a rocky shoreline and you can get right down to the water. ALong the way we paused at to take in the lakeview from atop the ridge..On our way down we marveled at the size of the rocks which were stacked fro a run of wall. Large square blocks of chart almost table size . From there the trail leads down the hill and into a cedar thicket.

The whole time hiking we only passed another group early on and saw only one boat on the water. The rest, the woods, trail and lake were entirely ours. In most places to trail is well-worn. Near the halfway point there's so much deadfall lying back and forth along the trail that I imagine in summertime you could lose your way. So always look ahead for the white metal strip markers s as you go along and you'll do fine.

If you've got a few hours and enjoy hiking this is a pretty easy walk. Just allow yourself enough time to explore the sites and woods and to take in the lake


Recommended.

A Friend and A Truck

A longtime friend of mine just moved on from these parts.... to the other side of the world, literally. We’d been tight 30-plus years, since we first wandered into here from opposite directions. At this writing, don’t really know if or when I’ll see him again. You learn with age nothing’s certain but the passage of time, and that’s limited.

Earlier in my life I might have saddened over such a departure but I’m older now and take all things in stride. In his case, he left as soon as his draining divorce was finalized. He needed to reinvent himself after a suffocating relationship. At least that’s how I see it: like so many in broken marriages he suffered real pain, at the same time loving that person and situation which was also the root of his grief. I did all a friend can do, listen and help talk him through some of the rougher spots.

At the beginning of our friendship we spent many miles and hours arguing our respective views of the world. The thing we most shared was a love of the outdoors, and constantly discovering its myriad fancies with long hikes through the countryside.
We were friends enough to agree to disagree on a whole range of issues, from politics to science to religion. I remember with a smile how he, a scientist, chided me once for allowing the possibility a perpetual motion machine could be built.

We had our last hike a few days before he left, on a large tract of nearby public land he had not visited before. Had he not left, we would have returned there again and again. We still may, if his journey points back this way.

In leaving, he shed this old life like a snake sheds its skin. In that complete break he wanted to make he gave me the truck which has served him so well for years. A little rusted and banged up but better than mine.

And to give someone a working truck in the country— I guess that’s as true a gesture of friendship as one can make.

Beyond their dreams....

I’m just back from watching the swearing in of our 44th president, Barack Obama. It’s a proud day for me as an American,. I also take some vicarious pride in this truly historic event for some long at rest in these Tennessee hills.

At the heart of our house is a one room log cabin once the home to a family of freed slaves. The cabin has an earlier history, reputed to have served as a toll house when the road outside our door was the main highway through the area. In my own research, though, the earliest deed I could find is for purchase of the this property by Stephen Sellars, colored a few years after the Civil War

I know from census records, before the war the same Stephen was slave to a Sellars family in the area, and that from 1870 onward, the Sellars family, with as many as seven children, made their home in this humble cabin. In fact, they named one of their daughters “America,” perhaps reflecting family pride in the country which struck their chains for freedom. On the hill near my office, within 100 yards of where I sit, there is an old black cemetery. Most gravestones are mere slate slabs set upright in the ground, but of the few carved with dates, several mark the birth of people born into slavery.


As I headed down the hill to vote for President Obama last November, I thought of all sleeping there, and what such a day and opportunity would have meant. Seated by those cabin walls watching our new President take his oath this morning my thoughts returned to them again, and all their years of suffering, endurance and hope had finally wrought., Here was a moment certainly beyond their dreams, but a dream fulfilled for all who recognize the basic dignity of all.


So in their memory, our flag proudly hangs today on the cabin wall they once recognized as home, to greet and remind wall who pass this way how far we’ve come as Americans.