We are here
“Nail or screw, nail or screw?” I thought to myself as I dug through Tom’s tool bag, searching for something suitable to use, but also so in my own head I’m not sure I’m looking at all. With our “TWO MARLIN FARM” sign under my arm, I can’t help but want something special to hang it up with, something to match the poignancy of this moment for us. Realizing I’m overthinking this, I settle for a simple finishing nail and grab the hammer, heading outside.
Snowflakes are falling in abundance, fat and heavy, feverishly racing to the ground. The air is otherwise still and serene, intermittently studded by the sound of the kids’ laughter as they hurl themselves down the hillside on their sleds. Marching to the shed, Tom interrupts me to show me something in the garage, hammer in his hand, as well. “I already have a hammer and nail,” I say, as I realize our efforts were duplicative. But, as if he was reading my mind through the doors and walls of our home, Tom had found something better. From a small cabinet in the garage, he pulls out a small baggie of nails, black with square, tapered shafts. I have never seen nails like these before. Written in black marker on the bag, it reads “NAILS (1880) Original from our house at [Address] when replacing rear door.” I pull one out and examine it as my sentimental heart swells. What a gift has been bestowed upon us—a 144 year old nail, used to build the 124 year old farmhouse we now live in. Now this is what I was looking for without even knowing it existed.
Tom hammered the nail into the outer wall of our garden shed, which went in straight with unyielding strength and purpose. I then carefully, and finally, hung up our farm sign, all while we awkwardly took pictures of one another. Such a mundane, seemingly meaningless task, to hang something up, but not this time, not for us. Although we have lived in our new home for a few months now, it has been years of dreaming leading up to this point. It now feels real. We have made it. We are here.
This past summer, we moved from our suburban homestead, where for years we’ve raised chickens and ducks, as well as grown fruits and vegetables, to a home with real acreage to start living our dream. This dream was so big, so engrained in our souls, we put an offer in on a house nearly 6 hours away from us, in a town which we’ve never been, and without ever even seeing the house in person. We saw the pictures of the meadow in the backyard, the rolling pasture, the untapped potential of the mountainous forest that could be all our own, and we rolled the dice. We outbid 3 others and moved in a month and a half later. They say with great risk comes great reward, and that has never felt more true.
Our dream is not yet fulfilled, however. It is merely defined (its full definition to be shared with you all in another post, another day), and is being pieced together with excel sheets, seed catalogs, sketches and lists in my Moleskin journal, videos, webinars, and books. Our dream has become a plan, and hangs heavy on our minds with prominence and reverence, much like that wood and wrought iron sign hanging on that near century and a half year old nail. As snow gently falls into an ivory blanket at my feet, the world is quieted and my soul finds peace.
We have made it.
We are here.
