Poppa had a burr under his saddle, a prickly sensation, an urging deep in his soul that triggered an obsessive circular thought which kept him up at night.
His thoughts became focused on the purchase of a piece of property not far from his home; the place where his mother-in-law (God rest her soul) once tended. The same place that had raised his wife-my mother (God rest her soul, cancer sucks!).
I tried to talk him out of the quest for this land, told him we were too busy to care for the land he already owned. But when a son, or daughter, of Appalachia sets their mind on something, no amount of reasoning will dissuade them. A child of Appalachia wants what they want and that’s the end of the discussion.
Years earlier, Momma had also become obsessed with the procurement of this adjoining property when her nieces mentioned their interest in selling their inherited land. They’d all moved away from Swain County and didn’t have need for acreage. Thus, the acquisition first began with the nieces, and later, Mother’s brothers.
It seemed no wanted the land which had raised them. Land their parents, or grandparents, had scratched and clawed to retain. Land my mother couldn’t even tend because - at the time- she was fighting ovarian cancer. But she could pray, and it was Mother’s prayer to keep all of the land her parents once owned in the family. Having this land was her singular focus, sometimes above fighting to survive.
Bit by bit, and from sibling to sibling, my father purchased the mountain land my dying Mother wanted.
Remission gave Mother renewed strength. Beneath a hundred-year-old black walnut tree, she hacked dirt away from the embankment and situated stepping stones into what would become the first of many places of solace where she would pray. With her lips pressed into a thin, determined line, she flattened the land one inch at a time and then transplanted ground cover, and even mustered the strength to chunk a few iris rhizomes and daffodils into the earth. She supervised as Dad situated a mailbox at the bottom of the steps. Not for the mailman, heavens no. Momma’s plot didn’t have a proper road. Once the mailbox was just so, Mother filled it with devotional books, a notebook, and pens sealed inside a plastic bag to keep the pages protected from the elements.
Satisfied, she sat beneath the walnut tree and commenced to praying. She called forth what she wanted for herself, for her children, and for her grandchildren to whom she would bequeath this land upon her acceptance into heaven. Before God called her home, she wanted all the land she could see.
But the land where her homeplace once stood remained the possession of another family member who wouldn’t accept Poppa’s offers. Mother would never own the land and years after she passed, her longing reached down from heaven and prickled Poppa’s brain. Each day he became more obsessed until the day he saw a FOR SALE sign hammered into the dirt.
“It’s too much money.” I insisted, when Poppa instructed me to contact the realtor.
“God quit making land a long time ago,” Poppa said. His resolve, unwavering.
“Best hold onto the money. Just look at the uncertain economy,” I pressed.
“Daughter. I ain’t taking a single dime with me when I leave this earth. Now call Marty.”
Marty Huskins had helped me find a home when my husband and I determined we would pull up stakes and flee Atlanta. Our children were in college, and with aging parents, the Beloved and I needed to settle somewhere close to them. Together, we found a small house with tidy sum of land. Marty would help Poppa navigate this transition.
On a Friday in December of 2019, Poppa, age 75, bought a farm not knowing his 52-year-old daughter would hatch a few cockamamie ideas of her own about how best to use this land.