An ode to what the old farmhouse has meant to us on the day we begin construction on our new home on our own farm about three miles away.
It was a cold wintry day when I brought my children to live in rural West Virginia. The farmhouse was one hundred years old, there was already snow on the ground, and the heat was sparse—as was the insulation. The floors weren’t even, either. My then-twelve-year-old son walked in the door and said, “You’ve brought us to this slanted little house to die.” Products of suburbia, my three children wondered why there was no cable TV or Target, not to mention central heat. My daughter, hungry from the trip, tried to call Domino’s. My cousins explained gently (and without laughing) that they don’t deliver pizza out here. I think it took her a good thirty minutes to believe they weren’t making that up.
I was at a turning point in my life, a crossroads where for the first time I could choose where I would live, not simply be carried along by circumstance. I was born in Texas, grew up in Maryland, Alabama, and California, and had since lived everywhere from Idaho to the Carolinas. When people used to ask me where I was from, I would go blank, like a foster child passed around to too many families to know which one was home. Where did I come from? I longed, deeply, to find a place to call mine. And as a writer, my office is my laptop. I could choose anywhere. So why did I choose West Virginia, a state that has notoriously lost population in the past century?
When I was a little girl and we lived in a suburb of D.C., my father took us every summer to an old cabin in West Virginia that stood on the last family-owned piece of a farm that once belonged to my great-grandfather, a farm once spanning hundreds of acres on the banks of the Pocatalico River. My father was born and raised on that farm in what was then known as Stringtown, a gas and oil boomtown in the early 20th century. Back in his day, what are now wild woods were cleared farm fields. There was a church, a school, a store, and even a hotel. The gasoline plant employed 50 men. There were wooden sidewalks down the dirt road and a public walking bridge across the river. The one-room schoolhouse where my grandmother taught still stands, but the Stringtown where I played during those long-ago summers was much different otherwise. It was like some kind of lushly-forested alternate universe filled with the ghosts and tales of my ancestors—the now-overgrown hills and meadows they once farmed, the caves where they hid their horses from Confederate soldiers, the graves in hidden cemeteries where they were buried. I loved those summers in West Virginia. I loved the trees and the quiet. I loved swinging on grapevines over the river and learning to skip rocks. And most of all, I loved that sense of history and place. My father clearly felt enough sentiment for it to share it with me by bringing me to visit here, yet despite its charms he–like so many of his generation in West Virginia, drawn like moths to the flame of cosmopolitan life beyond these simple hills—grew up and moved away, never to return but for those brief times. He used to say about West Virginia, “I got out of there as soon as I could.”
But when I stood at that crossroads nearly two years ago now and decided to move to the boonies of West Virginia, to a tiny town just over the hill from my great-grandfather’s old farm, I took a deep breath of the clean air, looked up at the sky littered with stars you could actually see, felt the far-reaching pull of my family’s roots, and said, “I got here as soon as I could.”
We live in the cutest little town that takes, oh, a minute and a half to drive through. Most people might think there’s not much here, but there’s all we need. If we actually want something from the city, we can drive the winding road to the interstate and get it, but that doesn’t happen too often. We have a cute little library comprised of one room, a cute little grocery store with five aisles, a couple of small churches and a bank, all flanked by country roads so narrow you have to pull off to pass. The school is so small, when my eighth grader graduated and I asked him who his friends were, he looked at me as if that was a stupid question and said, “There are only thirty-six students in the whole grade. I have to be friends with everyone.”
And he’s right—everyone is friends with everyone. The whole town is like one big “Cheers” bar. Everyone knows your name. At first, I found this disconcerting. Why are these strangers in the grocery store talking to me like they know me? And how do they know my name? When my oldest son totalled my car two days after he got his driver’s license, all the kids at school knew about it by the time he got there the next morning. When I arrived at the accident scene, a paramedic I’d never laid eyes on before was calling to me by first name. My cousin’s wife (a nurse at the nearby hospital) ran down to the emergency room in case we needed to come in. My cousin heard about it at his office and drove down to the scene. It’s like everyone knows everything by some kind of osmosis here. Everywhere I went for the next month, people asked me about the accident. This is a world away from the anonymous suburbs. Here, people are connected—to the land, to the history, to each other. People know—and care—about their neighbors (and they seem to know everything approximately five minutes after it happens). I watch my cousin drive his tractor down the country road every spring to plow his neighbor’s garden. I see my cousin’s mother take food up the hollow to a friend who had a farm accident. When a kitten climbed in and got stuck in the dash of my car, neighbors came over to try to get it out. No matter how big or small the problem is, people don’t just care, they help. People keep walking when a woman is being attacked in broad daylight on a public street in some parts of the United States, but people will drop everything to help a kitten here.
My kids eat sandwiches sitting in apple trees. They jump fully clothed in the river if they want to. They skate on frozen creeks and they know how to pick a hoe out of the shed. They know what a low-water bridge is, and how to set a turtle trap. We don’t worry about burglars at night but raccoons. They eat corn on the cob and know they planted the seed. People around here don’t have much if you compare them to suburbanites. Even if they can afford it, they don’t buy granite countertops or designer clothes, and there’s not much competition at the high school for the swankest car. As my son likes to say (in his exaggerated teenage way), “They’re all driving cars their grandfathers bought in 1950.” But for all they don’t have, what they do have is each other, along with that deeply-held pride in community and family and plain living that has been largely lost in the contemporary world.
And that’s exactly why I wanted to bring my once-pampered suburban children here, to grow up knowing what matters, what is real. West Virginia is still an alternate universe from the rest of the country. Here, you don’t call for pizza. You call your neighbor.
Other people may have chosen to leave, but I chose to come, and I choose to stay. When people ask me where I’m from now, I have an answer. I’m from West Virginia. And my children, who once wondered if I brought them to this slanted little house to die, have bloomed like flowers taken from a sterile hothouse and put out in the natural sun.
We didn’t come to this slanted little house to die. We came here to live.
Thanks and love to the old farmhouse, my cousins, and all of you who have kept me company on this journey as we take the next step.
*Post update: We moved into our new farmhouse in March, 2008. We’re settling in, building a new farm from scratch, and populating it with chickens and goats. Please visit the daily farmhouse journal to see all the latest fun!
9:38
am
9:49
am
Yet my soul still longs for the land, and sometimes a sad-sick feeling will sweep over me, with the words “I want to go home” coming unbidden to my mind. It’s not a longing for Gaspé, per se, but for wide-open spaces, forests, and room to breathe.
Then I have to remind myself of a Chinese (I believe) proverb that says, “Bloom where you are planted.”
Sometimes that’s the best you can do.
Wishing you Blessings and Joy on your next steps, Suzanne.
-Kim
9:49
am
10:35
am
10:38
am
10:47
am
11:39
am
11:40
am
12:05
pm
12:06
pm
Leanne
12:53
pm
Great post.
1:19
pm
:clap:
1:30
pm
2:55
pm
3:15
pm
5:16
pm
Cole
5:54
pm
6:34
pm
As a country girl who moved to the city, then back to the country once again, I can relate. I love that my kids enjoy the rural way of life. Your own kids seem to be thriving, and clearly you love it too. :treehugger:
6:35
pm
7:11
pm
8:47
pm
I hope you are having a fantastic week.
9:11
pm
1:46
pm
11:06
pm
I want to move there too!
Beautiful stuff, Suzanne. Beautiful.
9:10
am
7:51
pm
I am so glad that you and the kids found a place to heal, to grow, to thrive. I have enjoyed all of the pictures of your new world. I look forward to pictures of your new house!
8:06
pm
11:39
am
And the others’ comments are So Nice…….
4:57
pm
4:42
pm
7:20
pm
your sixth cousin(i think), ginger
3:44
pm
Beverly
2:59
pm
You don’t know me, but I am your Cousin Michael’s wife, Sonia - we live now (as I’m sure you’ve heard) just south of Cleveland Ohio in the house I formerly shared with my late husband. I have stayed at the farmhouse - and I, too, had many of the feelings you so beautifully expressed here. I don’t belong there - as although I attended schools in St. Louis, Denver, Oklahoma City,and Kansas.I was “born” in Akron Ohio and at not quite 18, I returned to Ohio to attend Kent State and have been here ince. This is my home; it was the home of both my parents. But - West Virginia reminded me of my “growing up” spent in a town of 4,000 in southern Kansas. It was peaceful, beautiful, relaxing and I found great calm and contentment there. I’m glad you and your children have found a sense of belonging and have gone back to your “roots”. I hope to meet you sometime next year. Always, Sonia L. Sergent (Mike Sergent’s wife)
10:48
am
9:33
am
WHERE do you grocery shop??
Love the blog, the kitties, your stories and pictures..
Happy Holidays!
MADDIE
10:45
am
2:02
pm
7:39
pm
1:54
pm
CG
7:50
am
You are one of a few that understand the true beauty of living in a rural West Virginia town. I grew up in a rural area about 45 minutes east of Morgantown [Terra Alta] and it was at times hard knowing that there were modern conveniences in the larger towns that we didn’t have. I now look back and truly appreciate the life that I shared with my parents and sister in our farming community.
I now live in Austin, TX and yearn for that childhood for my son. Unfortunately, we can’t move back to WV but I am determined to give him the smalltown experience one way or another.
I miss my home among the hills…….the rugged beauty and the aboslute quiet on a cold winters night.
Thanks for the post!
2:00
am
4:06
pm
9:45
am
She was telling me a story about someone coming to visit and as soon as the car doors opened all the kids disappeared. She said that always happens.
She sent me a picture the other day and her kids had built a fort. I asked if she told them about the fort we had built. There’s something about being outside, running and playing and imagining what could be. It’s the best way to raise kids.
Thank you for your story.
12:53
pm
Thanks for sharing your experience.
8:08
am
12:40
pm
4:58
pm
10:06
pm
1:34
am
8:42
am
I love your site!!! TAkes me back to another world. My father too grew up in War Eagle WV. Never been there though. I cant wait to make the pumpkin butter. Can you send me the chocolate pudding care recipe - my mother use to make it when i was little. Thanks for letting us in to your home, your farm and your life. It is so refreshing these days. I live in Lancaster, Texas. Where were you born in Texas?
8:57
am
http://suzannemcminn.com/blog/2008/01/12/chocolate-pudding-cake/
And if you click on the “printable recipe” link at the bottom of the post you can print it.
7:59
am
11:58
am
I look forward to reading your past and future posts.
12:17
pm
1:43
pm
I read the “interview” in the Times Record, and enjoyed every word, but when I went to your site, I enjoyed that even more.
I’ve been a country girl all of my life, except for brief intervals. I’ve had a taste of the “City Life”, and want no part of it. I was away for 8 years and moved back to WV, and vowed never to leave again.
As a child, we also had a cellar door with a big chain, and when you opened the door in the winter to bring out a big pan of apples or pears that had been picked and stored earlier in the fall, the aroma was unforgetable, just as were those fresh fruits. As is yours, the shelves were always filled with black berries, and all sorts of other goodies which my mother had worked hard to preserve in the Summer.
I enjoy your excellent writings, and your photos are very impressisve. Keep up the good work, and I’ll certainly spread the word about your wonderful web site.
Sharon
7:22
am
8:24
am
2:03
pm
My home in California was a little transplanted piece of WV. After I retired I moved in with my son (a bachelor) while I searched for my WV home. I promptly dug up his entire back yard and planted a vegetable garden. I grew enough beans that I canned three cases of quarts that summer. Every fall I make apple butter…well you get the picture. Finally I’m in a place where I really fit in.
I read your piece about the move from the city, and tried to read it to my DH, but I was sobbing so I couldn’t get the words out. I forwarded it to friends and family in CA — they think I’m nuts for leaving. (I think they’re nuts for staying.
You said what I feel so much more beautifully than I ever could. Maybe they will understand after they read it from you.
11:22
am
12:32
pm
6:34
pm
Your blog wasn’t the information that I was on the hunt for but it was on the other hand, a delightful surprise. Best of luck with your writing! I will look for your books.
11:43
pm
12:11
pm
8:59
am
4:19
pm
4:48
pm
Having grown up as an Air Force brat, then retiring to a small town, I have likes and dislikes about small town living. One, yes, it is wonderful that people are connected - I found out how wonderful that IS, when most of my family died and I felt orphaned. If my husband is deployed, I always say “I can be dead two weeks before anyone would know”….
The flip side, is that I hate the “pecking order” of a small town - certain kids get the BEST summer jobs, because of WHO their parents are and WHO they know…or working as a dental assistant - we could fit in IMMEDIATELY the well to do, but schedule the unknowns, or not take “certain ethnic groups as patients”…type thinking. OR, what you did in 1st grade is NEVER forgotten - you are marked. If you say “Joe blow is a very nice man”…you may hear “yeah, but when he was 6, he was so wild..he smoked a cigarette” - you are marked for life. Plus, it IS annoying to have all the gossip/busibodies…ect. ect. ect.
But, overall, having lived both ways..I have to agree, it sure is nice to have a big old family, who cares - you can overlook many of the other annoyances…just to have caring people around to help and love on, have fun with…
8:51
pm
9:54
pm
11:56
pm
4:20
pm
2:57
pm
I used to live in a small town that to this day still has no running water. Had a small barn and chickens and learned to garden and tell when it was going to rain by how close the train sounded.
Learned to really ‘feel’ each season..time to plant, time to harvest, time to get everything ready for winter, then watch for the first stalk of rhubard to peep through the earth.
Fishing in the creeks, hunting for raspberries and blackberries and collecting black-eyed susans for the table.
Oh what memories you stirred up.
You have taken me back to the most beautiful time in my life. Thank you!
8:30
am
11:33
am
Dehumanizing to say the least!
:flying:
9:23
pm
9:31
pm