The Place We Want to Be...

We are now, officially, in the weeds. This was a term I was familiarized with when I waited tables more than a decade ago. We would say someone was in the weeds if they had more than five tables ordering the same course at the same time, and probably had other tables that needed some special attention and a long line of hungry customers waiting for a table. If it was a good day in the restaurant everyone pitched in to pull you out of the weeds, filling up water glasses that were dreadfully low, delivering a dish to the proper table when it was hot out of the kitchen, and generally just helping to maintain the flow of the place. If it was a bad day, you found yourself in the weeds and when you looked around for help everyone else was in the weeds too. Those days went incredibly slow, earned ridiculously little in the way of tips, and usually ended up in a crazy nightmare reliving the whole sorry day at two in the morning. Fast forward fifteen years...

The remodel of the farmhouse is in full swing. So far the demolition, plumbing, concrete floors with hydronic heat, and the framing are done. Electrical will be done by next Tuesday and insulation should get done by the end of the week. Things are humming, but there is always more. I started consulting at the local private school three days a week, and Toby has finally turned consulting work into a full-time gig. These two things added into the remodel/living in a rental and trying to grow a farm just put us over the edge. The rental house is in total chaos with growing chicks in one of the bathrooms, seedlings growing on the kitchen table, dust bunnies so big they scare the cats, and a kitchen counter hidden somewhere under cookbooks and empty jars from the winter stores of pickles, jams and preserves. The farm itself if very forgiving, and we are grateful for the perennial berries coming back along with the rhubarb, and the orchard waking up and beginning to bloom. There is no way we can keep up with everything these days, but somehow our friends and family feel the vibe and are all pitching in to pull us out of the "weeds".

From building berry trellises to selling us plant starts, to feeding us dinner, we feel supported and uplifted. Just when we feel like we want to throw in the towel and cry, someone drives up the driveway for a visit and an encouraging hug. Others remind us that they want to buy produce and eggs from us when we are fully operational, and that alone is motivational. Bees have been gifted to us by wonderful neighbors, and sage advice has saved our skin more than once. This community, this time in our lives, is seeing a lot of uncertainty. We all struggle, stumble, worry. We all have strengths, passions, abilities. What seems to keep us sane, what keeps the weeds at bay, and what keeps us going are the neighbors we find ourselves among right here.

The Art Of Being A Neighbor

As heard on NPR's Weekend Edition Sunday, April 12, 2009.

I used to believe in the American dream that meant a job, a mortgage, cable, credit, warrantees, success. I wanted it and worked toward it like everyone else, all of us separately chasing the same thing.

One year, through a series of unhappy events, it all fell apart. I found myself homeless and alone. I had my truck and $56.

I scoured the countryside for someplace I could rent for the cheapest possible amount. I came upon a shack in an isolated hollow four miles up a winding mountain road over the Potomac River in West Virginia.

It was abandoned, full of broken glass and rubbish. When I pried off the plywood over a window and climbed in, I found something I could put my hands to. I hadn't been alone for twenty-five years. I was scared, but hoped the hard work would distract and heal me.

I found the owner and rented the place for $50 a month. I took a bedroll, broom, rope, a gun, and cooking gear, and cleared a corner to camp in while I worked.

The locals knew nothing about me. But slowly, they started teaching me the art of being a neighbor. They dropped off blankets, candles, tools, and canned deer meat, and they began sticking around to chat. They asked if I wanted to meet cousin Albie or go fishing, maybe get drunk some night. They started to teach me a belief in a different American dream—not the one of individual achievement but of neighborliness.

Men would stop by with wild berries, ice cream, truck parts, and bullets to see if I was up for courting. I wasn't, but they were civil anyway. The women on that mountain worked harder than any I'd ever met. They taught me the value of a whetstone to sharpen my knives, how to store food in the creek and keep it cold and safe. I learned to keep enough for an extra plate for company.

What I had believed in, all those things I thought were the necessary accoutrements for a civilized life, were non-existent in this place. Up on the mountain, my most valuable possessions were my relationships with my neighbors.

After four years in that hollow, I moved back into town. I saw that a lot of people were having a really hard time, losing their jobs and homes. With the help of a real estate broker I chatted up at the grocery story, I managed to rent a big enough house to take in a handful of people.

It's four of us now, but over time I've had nine come in and move on to other places from here. We'd all be in shelters if we hadn't banded together.

The American dream I believe in now is a shared one. It's not so much about what I can get for myself; it's about how we can all get by together.


Eve Birch is a librarian in Martinsburg, W.Va., where she also runs a small remodeling business that provides day work for needy neighbors. Two stories Birch wrote about her life in the shack are featured in the anthology, The Green Rolling Hills.

Home Construction

Picture of the house with the south wall opened. Mud all around. Let's get to work.


It all starts with a big mud pile. Three weeks of rain doesn't help.


Bobby Roggenbuck arrives with big equipment to make mud into tight corners.

Other pictures

Left Field Chapter 2: Breakage and Loss

The last posting could have gone on and on, so I decided to tackle the collection of balls that landed in left field on a "ball by ball" basis. Last posting ended up focusing on the crazy snow patterns we experienced this winter (it is NOW Spring and I refuse to accept any more snow) and this entry was intended to focus on breakage. The breakage I had in mind was the crazy two weeks in which our car broke, our bus broke, our refrigerator broke, our washing machine broke, and only a few of the heaters in the rental house we currently inhabit felt like working. I planned on regaling the comical way we tip-toed around afraid of breaking yet another thing, and how slowly but surely one thing after another was either replaced or repaired. Instead I am going to swing the bat and write about the breaking of my heart when I returned to the farm this afternoon to find the neighbor dog feasting on our small flock of chickens.

Now those of you who are loyal readers of the blog may recall that we lost a few girls to an aerial predator a few months ago, and while that was upsetting and unnerving it does not even come close to what went down today. I arrived at the gate enjoying the first real sun we were granted all week. Toby arrived home a bit early and was playing with the kids back at the rental. I was planning on doing some evening chores and a little work in the orchard to make up for a week spent inside with the rain. However, as soon as I saw the neighbor's dog in our yard I knew there was something wrong. The dog immediately bounded up to me looking proud at what he accomplished but also in a panic. Apparently as he wolfed down (that meaning rings so true right now) one of the girls her bone got lodged in his mouth and he was in some pain. I rushed him back to his home and into the arms of his stunned and saddened owner and then returned to assess the carnage.

Two girls, Fondo and Cherry-Egger, were the only ones recognizable and pretty much in one piece. Their soft feathery bodies were still quite warm and although the color had all but drained from their combs, earlobes and waddles I hesitated to pick them up for fear of hurting them more. I briefly considered cleaning and eating them in a sort of macabre memoriam, but Toby nixed that almost immediately when I offered it. Instead, I tucked them into an apple crate and stashed them away for a proper funeral the next day with the whole family. I then walked the entire property, and the three adjacent properties to see if I could find any other girls. Sobbing and unsure what to do I fell back on my purpose for coming to the farm this evening, and proceeded down to the orchard to start observing the trees for bud development.

Three trees into my observations I heard a wonderfully familiar sound and raced back up to the coop to find that one of the girls Rose had reappeared at the coop. She was loudly proclaiming her survival, and probably her sadness over what had transpired and when she saw me running toward the coop she ran just as fast toward me. All our chickens have imprinted on me as their mom and I can only imagine what was going through her little mind as I scooped her up and held onto her for at least ten minutes.

Feeling a little revived I put Rose in her coop and made one last walk around the property before the sun was totally gone. It was that end of the day when the birds and frogs sing out to welcome the night, and when the diurnal creatures high-five the nocturnal animals as they tuck in for the night. I was dumbstruck to see eight deer in the neighboring field; just standing their watching me look for a lost chicken, reminding me that things come and go. It was almost as if they were all saying they were sorry, and it was not my fault for letting my girls stretch their legs and wander around searching for the perfect grub. They too were taking their chances standing in such numbers in a wide open field. Life is for the living.

When I walked back to the coop to close the door and say goodnight to Rose, Mildred another one of the girls showed up and quickly ran into the coop as well. With two chickens now present and accounted for, I breathed in and tried to be thankful. They on the other hand settled in to what they do, scratching around, looking for that perfect grub. I really hope they find it tonight, they have earned it.