This essay originally aired in 2002.
The author wrote many essays for the local paper,
and voiced them for KTNA listeners
as part of the Earth and Beyond program.
We’re getting to know each other, the farm and I. John has been working on our new place for three and a half years, and it is just now, and finally home for both of us. We’re testing the waters, spreading our wings.
As I settle in, I feel like a hen or a robin, settling in to my nest. I’m all ears, all eyes. What will living down here on the farm have to teach me? What can I learn from this place? So many people have asked me, “Won’t you miss being in town? You’re such a people person.”
I have a feeling that being on the farm will give me plenty of good lessons; lessons on life out of the mainstream, as much as Talkeetna can be considered “mainstream.” How much does a house know, I wonder? How many memories do the log walls contain? Do the woods dream? Do they have memories? The longer I live here, will more be revealed?
As I walk from room to room, I’ve heard noises I can’t explain. As I walk through the woods, I hear noises, too. Are these voices from the past? I have a distinct feeling that this land we now call our farm was occupied before modern times, by the “early people.” Our farm is all low land, probably river-bottom, ages ago after the glaciers receded. The soil is rich here, and I feel a deep sense that when I put my feet on the earth, the earth rises up to meet me. It’s a welcoming feeling, inviting me to explore further.
The land is so big, I can take a walk every day and never leave the property. There are acres and acres to discover, with many different ecosystems contained within the boundaries. There is the fiddlehead fern forest with its promise of spring that turns into a fairyland in early summer. Judging from the vestiges of summer, we have a fine crop of devils club, too. In summer, this Alaska ginseng plant reminds me of giant maple leaves on a bad hair day!
Old cottonwoods with their tops broken off are down by the slough. High-bush cranberries abound most everywhere. I’ve seen ducks in a slough that contains water only when the Susitna River is high, and salmon in another slough. Rusty blackbirds were in a flooded area of birch trees one spring.
Two summers ago, a great-horned owl took up temporary residence in the sawmill shed. John called to tell me, and I was able to get a long, long look at him, head rotating around, yellow eyes fixed on me. Early one spring before we lived here, I saw Lapland Longspurs for a few days along our driveway, and I know that a merlin lives close by; we’ve seen and heard him many times. Birds are comforting to me; their presence means that this place is alive.
Some of the first things I brought here were my birdfeeders. John has had one here for a few years, but mine are newcomers. I work out of my home now, and from my desk up here in the loft, I can see my feeders, hung just outside the door, that opens onto a small, very small, deck. The feeders have been well-received, and I trust that this is just the beginning of a long and equally beneficial relationship. Red-breasted nuthatches have been coming regularly, and the black-capped chickadees. The downy woodpecker has been to the suet frequently, and just today, a hairy woodpecker came by for a snack. The birds are life, they are movement. Common redpolls and pine grosbeaks are visible on our property, but haven’t come to the birdfeeders yet. I have faith that they will. Any movement or color outside in the winter is always welcome.
It’s gloriously quiet here. When I lived in town, there were always sounds: dogs barking, cars roaring down the road, gunshots, fireworks, airplanes, helicopters. Here I can go outside quite often and hear nothing. What a concept! Nothing! Oh, yes, the train does come by now and then, and yes, it’s only about one hundred yards from the back of the barn, but I like the train. Growing up in the Lower 48, I always equated trains with “opening the West’” and the connectedness of the small towns.
The power of the engines thrills me, and the horn that blows when they’re approaching the crossing sounds nostalgic to me. I’m even beginning to see the difference in the personalities of the trainmen. They all must blow two longs, one short, and two longs on their whistle, but some of them add their own personal touches. This is the stuff that small towns are made of. I wonder what some of them must think, now that there are lights on in the evenings here in this cabin, down on the farm. Do they wonder who we are? Pretty soon John will put little colored lights on a tiny tree that is visible only from the tracks. A little Christmas tree just for the trainmen. That’s my John!
In our other cabin, we always had TV reception, and mostly only watched public television programs. Before we moved, I did research on TV options, both with a dish and antennas, not knowing what reception we might have. It never dawned on me that I could exist without TV. I’m a transplant from the city and it always had some part in my life. Well, we didn’t do anything about it, and I’m loving it. I’m actually reading, not watching the tube. Oh, John has an old beater TV in the back of his shop, hooked to a freebie antenna. We may be down on the farm, but Monday Night Football is Monday Night Football, you know what I mean?
I’m lucky, I know. I work out of my home on the computer, with the view outside my window of beautiful birch trees, and even Mt. McKinley on a clear day. I do what I enjoy, and appreciate where I live. Every time I enter our cabin, I feel like I’m walking into a page from a magazine. The spruce and birch floors glisten. The logs in the living room glow like gold, and the new breakfast room is a dream. My beautiful kitchen beckons me to make cookies, roast a turkey, bake some bread. The carpet in the bedroom feels good in my bare feet. I’m grateful for all that I have. I look forward to grounding here. This place feels good.
Though winter has make only a weak effort of snow-turned-to-ice, I look forward to the change of seasons here. We’ve talked about where the Christmas tree will go, and I’m planning to put up some of the little white lights this weekend. I even have a surprise string of lights that John doesn’t know about. Don’t spill the beans! They’re little John Deere tractor lights! I can’t wait for him to see them, and I just hope that I’m not carrying this farm thing too far!
It will take a while to get a true sense of this place, inside and out. I’ll need to walk through the woods in all seasons, checking out the animal tracks; go to the river to feel its pulse, smell its smell. This place will need to get a feel for the sense of me, too. Like an animal, I will leave my mark here in subtle ways. For a while, we’ll be getting to know each other, adding memories to the ones already here.
If the first month is any judge, I’m going to like it here, down on the farm.
“We’re Getting to Know Each Other”, written for the column A Sense of Place by Grete Lewis Perkins
Grete Lewis Perkins and John Baker still live on their farm about 6 miles from Beautiful Downtown Talkeetna. She is the “Bamboo Sock Lady.”
