One of the challenging things about our new life in the Boistfort Valley is that we did not know anyone here when we arrived. My grandfather once said “without friends and family, you just can’t make it”. We have a great family, though most are far from us. Fortunately, I am married to one of the friendliest people I know, which helped us to start making new friends here right away.

As we work through the steep learning curve of land stewardship, our new friends here have been amazing. How do I do this? Where do I find that? What’s that place over there? Our questions never go unanswered. You can only read so many books by self-proclaimed experts on the ideal ways of doing things. To be more effective, you need to find out what works from the real experts — the ones that have been making it work here for years, or in many cases, several generations.

So when you need to know how to bud an apple tree, there’s a retired engineer that will teach you. What’s this tall weed popping up? If it’s nasty, your neighbors will let you know. First time tractor owner? Just ask — most tractor owners LOVE tractors and will tell you all about yours until you ask them to leave. Looking for an eighties-era flux capacitor? Tell the next two people you run into — by the end of the week, half the valley will know your need. If there’s one available, you’ll hear about it.

But there are other kinds of books worth reading. One of our new friends is also engaged in the stewardship of her family’s land and shared the following perspective:

“The land is like a book that you explore and read and learn, finding new surprises all the time. And occasionally you can add some footnotes or a few more lines to better the whole.”

Astutely written, her words got me thinking... when you re-read a book, the experience can be different the second time - not because a book changes - because you change. But with you and the land, both change, so every day has the potential to be a different story. The land is part of your little narrative, and what you do there is written into its epic autobiography.

A few weeks ago, a young man was cutting hay on our property and approached me with a question: “what was that old post over there for?” I knew immediately he must of have mowed it down, so I asked him to show me. The blades went halfway through the wood before snapping the weathered mossy sentinel off at the ground. I did not know the answer — it stood alone at the bottom of a hill — nothing attached, nothing around it. The story of its placement there is unknown to me, I cannot read it. And yet without knowing how it started, the young man wrote himself into the story. I saved the post and displayed it upright against a haystack for others to read.

Right now, the turkeys are writing their own story — one of circles and gobbles and fluffy feathers. A half acre is waiting to be prepared for a yarn about next year’s dry-farmed beans and corn. KiKi is likely ending the story for another vole. And the trees, still but for the wind’s own story, add another gradual ring in their saga.

We are beyond fortunate to be included in such an amazing book.