Publication Year: 2014
Published by: Michigan State University Press
Title Page, Frontispiece, Copyright, Dedication, Quote
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Childhood dreams cast long shadows into a life. As if the
strong feelings they stir prove their validity, dreams propel the dreamer
through an indifferent world. Which explains how I, a guy who grew up in
a Florida beach town, find myself crouched beside a suffering sheep in an
“Richard, I think you should call the vet,” says my wife. Kathy and I flank the ewe’s prostrate body...
Part One - Land Ties
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Kathy had found the farm yesterday, in the gentle snowfall
of our first Appalachian winter. Now she drove me to her discovery. Before
we were out of town, I peppered her with questions and steeled myself for
It was December 1996, five months since we’d moved from Bloomington, Indiana, to Athens, Ohio. Five hard months of searching for a farm— either the houses or the land, or both, had been wrecks. One of Kathy’s secretaries, who’d grown up outside Athens, had told her that a farm would be auctioned to settle an estate...
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That first winter, friends back in Indiana would warn us when our former Hoosier hometown had been thrashed by wind and water and snow. “Watch out,” they’d say, “there’s a bad storm coming your way.” On television the Weather Channel’s radar confirmed this. A grainy mass of swirls was leaving southern Indiana and was bound for southern Ohio, coming right at us. But Appalachia’s uplifted terrain pushed back against...
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I arrived one mild afternoon to tend our chickens at Willy’s
and found my rolling hen house empty. Buff feathers littered the grass.
Willy came out of his blue house. “A dog got in,” he said. “It went in over the top and busted through the wire.” He put his good hand on the wire portion of the roof, and I saw where he’d stapled the wire carefully back to a brace. Willy’s German shepherd slunk around the corner of his house, glanced at me, and disappeared beneath. Willy said, “I’m sure it was her. She’s a sneaky damn thing.”...
Part Two - Sheep Over the Mountains
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Claire and Tom and I sat at the picnic table beside the cabin, eating bagels. He had cream cheese on his cheeks and hands, and there weren’t any napkins. Never mind; we were homesteaders. Real landowners anyway, and half frozen. We’d spent the night in the chilly cabin, and Kathy, who’d slept in town, had brought us breakfast. It was a glorious late- April morning, sun- spangled, drying, bathed in birdsong. I luxuriated in the sun and gratefully held a cup of coffee...
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Weary of my endless work clearing fence lines of multiflora rose, I drove my truck to a pasture walk on a warm Friday morning that August. The farm, west of town, recently had been purchased by a young couple planning to start a dairy. About eight of us showed up to give tips on fencing and opinions on the state of their pastures. As a neophyte myself, I didn’t have any advice to offer, but hoped instead to learn...
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I wanted to rename the farm. “Lost Valley” described the bottom
ground now submerged beneath Lake Snowden. And people in this region
of hills and hollows had called countless farms Lost Valley or Hidden Valley.
The farm itself was hidden, even secretive, despite the tree disaster and the
curiosity we’d aroused, but I wanted a name that meant something to me.
As a boy, I’d loved naming animals. At the age of five, living at Stage Road Ranch, I called my blue parakeet Hattie; I have no idea where the...
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By February we’d spent countless hours and several thousand dollars planning a house, tearing down the cabin at Mossy Dell, and preparing the site. First we’d developed a floor plan with a national company that sold custom kit homes, airy timber- framed structures, before backing out over the cost. Then we’d worked with a local builder, who tried to approximate the timber frame’s floor plan on his computer, but created...
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On a fine day in early June, Claire and I were driving back to Ohio over Maryland’s western mountains. Fifteen ewe lambs stood behind us in the truck’s bed, under a blue aluminum topper, a new $500 investment that transformed my pickup into an animal transport. The lambs were mostly white, some with black spots across the nose, and one was reddish brown...
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The July evening before our scheduled closing, Fred telephoned and told me that a thief had come in the night and stolen the two huge black lion statues that guarded his driveway. “I’ve reported it to the sheriff,” he said. I was relieved by this obvious lie. How could I have gotten rid of those pretentious eyesores? “Thanks for letting me know,” I said, and got off the phone. Interacting with him in person again concerned me because by then it was hard just looking at his long bloodhound’s face and hooded eyes...
Part Three - Water and Earth
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In early April, a little over a week until lambing, when I moved the flock to fresh grass one afternoon I noticed a small ewe with scours, the farmer’s term for loose bowels. Like all stockmen, I was becoming a butt and poop inspector, forever worrying about the consistency of the manure issuing from my animals. These scours were black, not greenish like the sort of digestive upset I could imagine from spring grass. The ewe didn’t graze, just lowered her head and let the grass brush her muzzle. Going off feed is another bad sign. An animal that refuses fresh pasture is sick...
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In late June, Kathy left for Hong Kong, where she was teaching a class to help pay off our house debts. I’d assured her that pond work and water lines would be subsidized for at least half their costs by the federal government under conservation and grazing- incentive programs. In truth I was hazy about what I was getting us into financially, because Daniel cost about $1,000 a day, and he’d said the job might take three days. I hoped that, with the federal help, I’d have to pay him at most $1,500...
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I’d first noticed Cream’s problem in late gestation, just before our second lambing began in April 2000, when her anus bulged like a bright red ball. Now, several days after she’d lambed, her rectum protruded and hung down like the trunk of a baby elephant. She’d suffered a rectal prolapse. After last year’s lambing, I knew to expect anything, but this was a rare malady...
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A month before our third lambing at Mossy Dell, Glen
Fletcher called and said he’d decided to move to Montana, buy a piece of
land, and build a cabin. “Maybe I’ll get a job on a ranch,” he said. “Fish in
the summer, hunt elk in the fall. Dodge grizzly bears till the snow flies.”
“Really?” I was shocked— Glen was such a farmer, such a shepherd— and I felt, at the same time, a twinge of envy. Hunting and gathering and helping someone with chores seemed so easy and peaceful compared with running a farm...
Part Four - A Way to Be
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One afternoon a week before Thanksgiving, a month after
I’d moved the sheep from Mossy Dell, Mom called me at the office from our
house with news to report: “A man was just here asking for you. He wanted
to check that you let him hunt, because your neighbor is upset.”
“What was he driving?”
“A big green truck.”
“He lives on the other side of Lake Snowden. I said he could hunt deer at Mossy Dell.”...
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Long ago I’d stopped talking of building a new house at the valley farm and selling the hilltop. We didn’t have the physical or emotional reserves to remount that rollercoaster, money concerns aside. We’d become averse to disruption. Our house, new from the ground up, reflected Fred’s legacy in the form of a wet basement. But it was home. And it didn’t appear that I’d ever run sheep on both places; I didn’t have the energy for it, and...
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So what indeed, Mom. I see your point now about selling Mossy Dell. Not such a big deal. There are endless dreams, so pick another or give an old one a new twist. That’s what Dad always did, forever reinvent himself, a jazzed beginner chasing a glorious new dream. And yet for me, Mossy Dell’s loss— for that’s how I couldn’t help but see it, as a loss— was a sea change, another before and after. Like when Dad sold Stage Road Ranch and overnight we found ourselves living in a Florida beach town freshly scraped from palmetto thickets...
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This April morning is so mild, the spring so tenderly advancing, that I’m surprised the forested hills remain bare. The naked trees, rising above lush pastures and weathered crop fields, are the dry mousy color of deer. Over the gray- brown domes of the woods there’s a golden- green haze: budding leaves. In field borders and woodland edges, brush is in full leaf; ...
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Page Count: 336
Publication Year: 2014
Series Editor Byline: John Smith, Will Wordsworth