This morning, we sit down to write with a cup of coffee we affectionately call the “Dudley Do-Right,” a nod to our forgetfulness about Tim Horton’s name. The brew is a reliable comfort, one of the best for the price, though we don’t stockpile it when rumors of price hikes are cunningly whispered to stimulate sales. Nevertheless, hoarding coffee is easier than hoarding toilet paper.
We write beside a south-facing window framing an ancient hickory and a towering red maple that were old when my grandfather was young. Red maples can live 200 years in the southern Appalachians, hickories up to 500, but these giants keep their age a secret. It’s rude to poke a hole in something for a core sample just to satisfy curiosity. At my feet, a sleepy pup warms my toes, another waits for his turn, and a cat glares, plotting revenge on all canines. Be it ever so humble, this is home, where we fit like a puzzle piece clicking into place.
An old friend once said the ideal relationship between humans and our planet is like finding the right acupuncture meridian: the perfect spot heals both you and the community around you, as long as you don’t jab the needle too hard.
For me, home is where Tracey is, in this remote sanctuary far from the sound and fury. Much of our family has journeyed on up ahead, and friends, now distant, send texts but never call. The information age was the death of good conversation, but here, we’ve taken root together, like the Concord grapevine my grandparents planted—deeply anchored yet always reaching for the sun.
In my younger years, I didn’t think much about home. The gypsy years after college and the service were for chasing the winds of chance, filling my sails with adventure. Youth is the time for such wanderings, and we’re never too old for a new journey. But when it comes to settling, some of us are tumbleweeds, others trees. Some, like the owner of the toes now warmed by a large black cat, are vines—rooted yet climbing.
Home means different things to different people. Some find it in a high-rise apartment, others on rolling farmland or a hidden mountain cove. For some, home is where the heart rests—with loved ones, friends, or simply within themselves—unbound by roots. Yet for people of the root, like us, a piece of ground is essential for peace and health. Whether it’s a backyard mowed with a push mower or acres tended with a bush hog, a place to walk barefoot, feel the dew, and know the names of the neighbors’ kids is a goal worth sacrificing for.
The modern world, with its hive mind, pushes endless consumption for fleeting gratification, discouraging the long-term pursuit of home. Cities thrive on this—rent everything, own nothing, subscribe to it all. Your car, your house, your software, your entertainment—even taxes remind us we’re tenants of the state. Fail to pay, and you’ll see how little you truly own. Yet, as the preacher says, we’re all just passing through, but while we are here, a patch of earth offers a counterpoint to the noise and prying eyes of the hive.
The human spirit still seeks green hills over gray concrete. The mass exodus of travel trailers south from our hills and valleys after Labor Day reflects a longing to reclaim something lost in the pursuit of the ephemeral. Here, in our sanctuary, we write for the people of the root, where art is long, time is fleeting, and home remains a worthy dream. Rumors of the American Dream’s demise are exaggerated. For us, it’s alive in the quiet of this place, where the trees stand tall, the coffee steams, and the heart finds its meridian.
This was my grandfather’s song, written by Alfred Brumley sometime mid 20th century and recorded first by the Stanley Brothers in 1960. It speaks of spiritual longing and a sense of alienation in a changing world. I’m not getting older of course, but I’m beginning to get an inkling of understanding as to why the song was important to him. Rank Stranger, performed by Ricky Skaggs
Outside The Box 