Three sides of the farm are edged by creeks. At this time of year, they burble . . . like a gleeful baby who has learned to blow bubbles.  On Meander’s nightly trips to “the facilities,” I can hear them dancing just below us. 5525034802

Yesterday, Phillip and I cleaned up a section of the mountain – removing the tree tops left when the previous owners timbered the land and cutting back the fuchsia brambles that arch and wind, prickly nets over the sunnier parts of the hillside.  There, massive boulders lie as evidence of the massive tumbling that has created the soft, near-tender curve of our Appalachian ridgelines.  Just south of this space, in the ravine that lingers between the place where our timber frame will be and this lower trail, a centuries old stream dances – near-ice but moving, etching itself into the very landscape.

I want to be that rooted and rootless.

Soon, Dad will build a cabin near here – a place to celebrate these rocks and these streams.  A place where he can come to listen.

This cabin will also be available for visitors – writers, musicians who find that the simplicity of the mountain – the way the empty branches sing and the great exhaustion from carrying in wood for the stove – refreshing and joyous.

Later today, Dad will come visit, and we will begin to plan this small building. . . for him and for you, if you wish it.

And all the while, the stream – who we must name, I think? even if it is already named – will dance and carve . . . like memory.

What would you name a small mountain stream that flows from our farm to Muddy Creek and on to the Rockfish River? 

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