What We Were Thinking, Part II

As the rainy autumn chilled quickly into winter, our weekend house-hunting explorations paused. We tucked into the tipi more cozily, having mastered the art of fire-making, and upgraded the floor coverings from blankets to canvas. It gave us time to reflect. And our backsides were drier.

We had that list of what we wanted from a piece of land, where folks could come to pray: meadow, woods, creek, a few outbuildings, a house, and...privacy. It became almost a mantra to us as we sized up each new property we visited. Nothing we'd seen so far had all of these elements, and to us, they were essential.

During his time working at the nursery the previous spring and summer, Patrick and I got to know his co-workers from Sonora, Mexico quite well. They were patient with his evolving attempts at Spanish, and he gently coached their English as they potted pine saplings, loaded box trucks, and ate their lunches together in the small break room. 12, sometimes 14-hour days were the norm, and Patrick would often linger at the end of a shift, thanking them for whatever new vocabulary he had learned. But what touched Patrick--both of us, really, as I heard the stories second-hand--was how these men had made the hard decision to be away from their wives, their children, their families back in Hermosillo, to find better-paying jobs (better by Mexican economic standards) here in the States, so they could send money back home to keep food on the table, rents paid, and little ones clothed. They were often away for nine months of the year. I imagined, wincing, what milestones they had missed (first steps, older family and neighbors passing away). More than once, I'd give Patrick's hand an extra squeeze when we were together, grateful for the privilege of simply having him within arms' reach on a daily basis.

As Cinco de Mayo approached that year, Patrick wanted to do something special for his work-friends, to perhaps close even an inch of the gap between them and their homeland with food, the centerpiece of all cultures, second only to language. In any kitchen, Patrick is fearless and talented; I weighed 98 lbs when we were married (haven't seen that number in years, and don't expect to anytime soon), and will happily clean up after him, no matter how many utensils and pans he's used.

So he pulled out all his best cookbooks, researched online, and created a menu that respected the Sonoran region of specialties, and also stretched his culinary skills in the process. We loaded up the car with posole, hand-made tortillas, menudo, an avocado side dish that wasn't guacamole, and every anticipated Mexican condiment we could find on that morning in early May. We set up the buffet in the break room, and posted a sign on the wall above the table, asking the other staff to allow their Mexican co-workers to fill their plates first, as a courtesy.

When I arrived around 5:30 that evening to collect Patrick, I found him in the gravel-and-dirt parking lot, a line of his Mexican co-workers grasping his hand in thanks, hugging him. Some were wiping their eyes with handkerchiefs or the backs of their hands. Not at all what we had expected, this response. We were humbled all the way down to our socks.

The line dwindled down to five of the men, who, in their combination of Spanish and English, invited us to dinner at their shared quarters on the nursery grounds. We negotiated a date and time, confirmed it in English and Spanish, and went home to wash the Tupperware that was piled in the back seat of the car.

The rest of that summer was filled with visits and dinners and more Spanish-English conversation lessons. We learned more about their families, their beloved state of Sonora, and cooked them a huge Thanksgiving dinner before they took Greyhounds back to Hermosillo for the winter. We dropped them off at the bus station, and confirmed plans to visit them in January.

Patrick left the nursery before Christmas and accepted a position in fundraising at the local office of a national nonprofit organization. One of his new co-workers took an interest in our search for land, and happened to live in the area where we were looking. She mentioned a farm that was on the market near her house, and offered to check with the realtor, since she knew him from the sale of her home. After checking, she reported sadly that the farm was in contract. We thanked her for the update, and left for Hermosillo, Sonora the next day.

Our friends lived humbly in Mexico, and close to each other. We saw them cuddle their children, dance with their wives on the patios of their simple homes. The joy in their faces was unmistakable--we'd not seen it at all when they were at work on the nursery grounds. But here, their feet on more beloved and familiar soil, they settled into the routines and relationships that nourished their souls. As we chatted around tables of food and extended family that week, each of these men in turn stated clearly, passionately, that they were done with the migrant gig. Hermosillo was where they belonged, and they'd find ways to make it work. "No more away from our loves". What they really wanted was what they had in that moment--wives, children, aunts and brothers-in-law, close at hand and more precious than the paychecks they'd sent from Ohio the previous year.

On the flight home, our suitcases laden with pastries and "armpit tortillas" (now, now...it's just a reference to the size of the tortilla--from armpit to fingertip--these things were HUGE, and delicious), we unfolded our impressions of the time we spent with them. Their lists of "wants" were anchored in relationships, not things. It silenced us when we approached the topic of resuming our house and land-hunting. We knew the land we hoped for was out there somewhere, but some key element was missing in each of our searches. The plane landed, we arrived at our little apartment, and started a load of laundry. "Maybe we've been asking the wrong question", I suggested. "Maybe it's not what we want from a piece of land; it's what the land needs from us.". He took the now-battered list from his shirt pocket and read it aloud: "meadow, woods, creek, a few outbuildings, a house, and...privacy".

30 minutes later, the phone rang. It was the realtor for the farm that was in contract, the one Patrick's co-worker had mentioned. The agreement had fallen through, the farm was back on the market, and would we like to take a look?

We met him at his house, and accepted his offer to drive us in his car to see the place.

The driveway was long and the bridge over the creek was beyond rickety. As we crossed it (my eyes were closed) and came around a slight curve, past a long white barn and a square outbuilding with peeling white paint, the scene opened up to reveal a house sitting atop a hill, and a rusty chest freezer in the lawn just off the front porch. Three cats sat hunched on the porch, and a series of misplaced t-posts were stuck in the ground at odd angles on either side of some dead-looking bushes that framed the spot where the driveway ended and the path to the house began. We got out of the realtor's car, and noticed mounds of plastic milk jugs and 2-litre pop bottles in an old red barn at bottom of the hill. Patrick spotted the shiny silver curves of two beer kegs nestled into the slope on the north side of the house, and a shed surrounded by what appeared to be the leave-behinds of a recent estate auction.

A shrieking sound, much like a child in pain, came from the barn, and we turned quickly, startled and ready for action. "Oh, that's the peacock, Sparky", the realtor said. "The owners moved to the city, and couldn't take him along". We squinted in the sunlight toward the sound, but couldn't see anything.

A large L-shaped field lay to the east, all 17 acres of it, and edged in woods filled with black walnut, maple, ironwood and oak. "About eight acres total, those woods, black swamp", the realtor beamed, "and in April, you should be able to hear the spring peepers clear as a bell". I smiled, wondering what a spring peeper was, and if the noise would keep me up at night.

We drove the realtor's SUV to the farthest northwest corner of the property, where the "L" part of the field met the woods, and peered through the tree trunks. The house was no longer visible; I felt apprehensively detached from civilization, and let a fleeting doubt zip through my brain. Did we really want this kind of life? Where were the grocery stores and the hospital? I kept my thoughts inside, silent as we drove back to the realtor's house where our car was parked. We shook hands, and told him we'd be in touch.

Back at the apartment, our first words tumbled over one another. "Did you see all the trash?" "A chest freezer? What were those kegs?" "I've never heard a peacock's call, have you?"

And then, it dawned on us. Meadow. Woods. Creek. A few outbuildings. A house.

Privacy.

We saw on that land all that we had originally wanted, hidden only by the wrong question.  It wasn't about what we wanted. It was about what that piece of land needed. From us.

Every empty milk jug, the two kegs and the chest freezer, whispered a faint "help" as we had surveyed the landscape of what was about to become our new home, our dream.

A place for folks to come and pray.

We rolled up our sleeves, wrote Sparky into the contract, and started cleaning up.

What We Were Thinking

All we really wanted was a place for folks to come and pray. A retreat, away from the city, far enough to feel tucked into the leaves, but not so distant that getting there was a deterrent to our collective spiritual disciplines and inclinations. What good is sacred ground if the feet never make contact?

It was late summer 1997. I worked for Habitat for Humanity, coordinating the volunteer involvement portion of their good work; Patrick clocked in every weekday morning at a nearby tree nursery, and took environmental studies classes in the late afternoons. We were four years and some change into our marriage, and through a series of circumstances and decisions, found ourselves dwelling-less.

We moved in with our dear friend and her three children (at the time toddler twin boys, and their younger-by-just-over-a-year sister. They’re fine young 20-somethings now, and even more dear to us than the days they were born), who lived on 22 acres of field plus woods plus pond. Well, when I say “moved in”, our chattels moved into the basement of her home. We settled ourselves a few hundred yards from the house, in a 15-foot tipi, then later upgraded to a 21-foot tipi, where we stayed through the winter.

In equal measure, it was both challenging and romantic to come home from work and class, walk through the tall grass to the door of our temporary canvas-and-pine poles home, light the fire and adjust the flaps where those pine poles joined together. Done correctly, this created a draft that drew the smoke upwards through the small opening at the top of the lodge. Sometimes my flint-and-steel attempts at fire-making took longer than was comfortable. I knelt on the frozen ground, my fingers feeling thick and clumsy as I struck the flint against the chunk of steel, hoping to throw a spark that would catch on the char cloth in the palm of my hand.

There are more contemporary ways to start a fire (matches and kindling, a blowtorch), but the thrill of seeing that char cloth ignite, and quickly dropping it onto the jute nest in the center of the fire pit, adding dry sticks, then larger branches and eventually logs, would never compare on the self-satisfaction scale to warmth stolen from a fire made the "modern" way. I held my hand at arm’s length away from my face, and flexed my once-again nimble fingers, grateful for my stubborn perseverance and skill.

1997's autumn was especially generous with its wet chilly rains, often soaking the hem of the tipi’s canvas along with any blankets we were using as a softer “floor”. More than once, Patrick and I lingered a bit longer over the dinners we all shared at our friend’s table, glancing out the window that framed the path to the lodge, looking for a break in the clouds, or wishing the fire had been lit by some elf from the woods who knew where we kept the flint and steel, and pre-made jute nests.

In that round circle of a home, our chattels safe and dry a few hundred yards away, we dreamt of and planned for the elusive retreat center that was hiding in the future. We’d spend hours poring over “homes for sale” classifieds, and on weekends, would orbit in a thirty-mile radius from the tipi, chasing the ads for 5+ acres, “Secluded!” “Away from it all!”, “Your new country paradise”!.

Along the way, we made sure we landed in places that offered up home cooking at the local diner, where we could savor our coleslaw and wash down cheeseburgers with coffee and conversation. We learned quickly that a realtor's idea of "secluded" and ours differed pretty much all the time. It didn’t take long for us to tell them that our standard of privacy was nudity. 

It raised a few eyebrows, but no one could debate what we meant.

We were also assured of flowing creeks, dense wooded borders, and excellent road frontage, and all of it failed to deliver. So we'd shake the dust off our feet, climb back into the car, and salvage the day by remembering that the coleslaw was tangy. 

Five months of this weekend ritual put us in front of much of central Ohio's up-for-grabs real estate, and we often remarked how little we had known about the topography of our home state, not to mention the dicing up of previously large farms, family-owned and beloved, about to become smaller rural "neighborhoods". We were one of those future neighbors, looking for a good fit, but naive about what it cost the previous owners to say farewell to a life we had only dreamt of.

And five months of searching had also resulted in a solid list of features that, for us, were now pretty much deal-breakers. We wanted: meadow, woods, creek, a house, a few outbuildings, and…privacy. All the elements necessary for living a prayerful, contemplative life.

(to be continued)

Checking In

Let me be clear--we're not nudists.

But we're also not opposed to getting dressed off the clothesline out back when it's convenient. When you have a home on 41 acres that's landlocked, that no one can see from the road, you tend to relax your rules a bit and take risks that would, in the city or suburbs, better acquaint you with your local law enforcement.

We moved, Patrick and I, in April of '99, from our relatively safe and fully-clothed suburb to what many still call "the middle of nowhere", and we haven't looked much in the rear view mirror to see what we're missing. We're not missing anything. But we did have to grow up, and out of, and way past our comfort zones to a place where we would come to be less startled and more delighted, even soothed, by a setting that never knew a chain link fence or a sidewalk.

The "Naked Acres" moniker came to us as the result of an acquaintance who never heeded our numerous requests to call before he came to visit. We're not reclusive, or involved in any manner of illegal what-you'd-expect-to-find-in-the-middle-of-nowhere activities. We just appreciate the gentle courtesy of which our kind is capable.

On that fateful morning, I heard the crunch of tires on the driveway gravel, and recognized the truck. It was summer, warm and breezy, and I was exercising my God-given homeowner's right to privacy, enjoying the view of the meadow from our front deck. I declined my husband's offer of the bathrobe that was draped over the chair nearby, and watched as he reluctantly walked the distance from the deck to the idling truck, which had come to a stop just at the bottom of the driveway's slope. The view of the front deck from this angle is clear, and close enough to draw conclusions.

Patrick approached the driver's side window, and after a handful of seconds, our acquaintance's truck made the slow and awkward retreat down the quarter-mile driveway. In reverse. Over the rickety bridge that spanned the creek, and up another incline until he was hidden from view by the trees that lined the driveway. It's not easy to do without veering into the poison ivy-covered buckeye saplings or the neighbor's cornfield. That was his last visit, unannounced or otherwise. We did see him occasionally in social settings after that, but not even the most gracious of exchanged pleasantries could erase the indelible understanding we'd all come to that breezy summer day.

I wondered what he and his therapist talked about at their next session.

Privacy is everyone's choice and privilege, and it somehow coexists with the human desire to interact, build communities, and be known. I dance back and forth between all of these on a steady, regular basis. I love where we live, where nudity is our standard for privacy (whether we exercise it or not), and I also enjoy hearing that crunch of gravel on the driveway from the cars of anticipated and cherished friends or family. Most days, I stand on our front deck facing the meadow, to the west, and keep my heart humble in gratefulness for even getting to be here, to have this view, to hear the warblers and the red-wing blackbirds whose call sounds like a drop of water gently leaving a faucet. I want others to experience those moments, to be here when the coyotes yip their way through the trees on either side of the creek, or to see Orion punching its star-yellow holes in the black winter sky after midnight.

When Henry Drummond, in the film "Inherit the Wind", tells the jury that we gave up our privacy when we welcomed the telephone, he both frames and forecasts the future of trade-offs that any technological advancement offers. There's a wincing tension we humans live with continuously--choosing between convenience and whatever else opposes it in a given moment: privacy, the satisfaction of taking the long sweaty way to completing a project, stronger muscles, the meaningfulness of the "getting there" vs. speed. Living here at "Naked Acres" presents Patrick and me with that choice daily. Some of our decisions are based on economics; most of them insist we dialogue with our core values intimately, and honestly. We pray to be aware of our options at least as often as they are offered to us, and choose with intention.

So, this blog is and will be a gathering of reflections on that journey, with our lovely slice of 41-acre paradise as both backdrop and writing fodder. I believe that we--you and I--can find that sweet place between a relationship's familiarity ("make yourself at home!"), and a genteel respect for someone's choice to self-reveal in his/her own time.

Welcome to Naked Acres.