where I lived the first 18 years of my life.
My family roots run at least
seven generations deep in that rich soil; the slant of
Minick's Hill, the
curve of Conodoguinet Creek, the rise of Kittatinny Mountain
dwell
permanently in the folds of my memory. But because I
no longer live in this
place of my birth, I question my nativeness to it.
Brice Minick, my great-grandfather, was born in 1867 in
McKinney, the next
village west of Newburg, five miles distant. An Amish
family now lives in
the large stone farmhouse, their horses working the fields
as they did at
Brice's birth. I grew up riding my bicycle by this
house, imagining its
history, its many stories.
As a young man, Brice left his native ground to venture
west with his
parents, traveling the twelve hundred miles from Newburg
to Dickinson
County, Kansas. But love and the pull of Pennsylvania
still held him, like
the magnet of the moon pulling the sea. He returned over
those 1200 miles
at least twice, once to marry Ida Franklin and take her
back to Kansas,
another time seven years later, after the birth of their
only child,
Arthur. The reason for this last trip home remains
unclear now--possibly a
business deal turned sour or homesickness. Whatever
reason, Brice
journeyed back to Pennsylvania to buy a farm and bring
the family to within
a few miles of where both he and Ida were born.
The farm they created sustained the family for over seventy-five
years. Its
ninety acres of fertile soil provided a home and a living
for Brice and
Ida. Their son Arthur and his wife Sarah also lived
out all of their years
there, raising four boys, my dad and his three brothers.
The oldest of the
four, Harry, took over the farm in the late 1950's, improving
the land with
contour fields and increasing the size of the dairy herd.
As the only
Minick of my generation to show any interest in the farm,
I grew up walking
the quarter mile from my house to the farm every day
after school to help
feed and milk the cows, slop the calves, make hay, chop
thistle, tend
Grandpa's blueberries.
In 1980, both of my grandparents died and Uncle Harry
soon gave up farming.
Though he had run the farm, his parents had helped
with much of the work,
and the three of them had lived together in the huge
three-story house.
Overwhelmed by the house and farm, and tired of milking
twice a day every
day for twenty-five years, Uncle Harry moved to an apartment,
became a
night watchman, and sold his equipment and herd.
Home for a break from
college, I helped load those bawling Holsteins onto the
eighteen-wheeler,
hooves clattering in the trailer, eyes searching through
holes for an escape.
None of the four sons had any desire to farm after Harry
stopped; yet they
still had great interest in the land. Led by my father,
the second oldest,
the four formed a corporation. They rented the house
to a family, and the
land to a nearby farmer who overgrazed the pasture and
let the weeds choke
his corn. My dad and his brothers, however, wanted
more. They surveyed
thirty of the ninety acres and sold the land to a developer.
These fields
now grow a subdivision instead of corn and alfalfa. They
call it Quail
Ridge, but quail no longer call it home. And neither
do I.
During this whole dissolution, I lived away at college,
then worked in
other places. For several years, I struggled with
a consuming
homesickness. I loved this farm, but didn't have
the experience, support,
or finances to stay and work it. I knew I could
rent the house and
remaining sixty acres from the Minick Brothers, Inc.,
but without equipment
and know-how, how could I ever survive as a farmer? And
how could I wake
every morning to look out the front window at the suburbia
of houses
choking my favorite fields?
In the late 1980's, Sarah and I left my native ground
and moved south to
new teaching jobs in Virginia's New River Valley.
We found a secluded,
overgrown farm we could afford, but now, instead of Blue
Mountain and Three
Square Hollow, I see mountains every day whose names
I'm just learning.
Instead of living around folks who knew me before I was
born, I'm in a
community of strangers, a community whose past is only
beginning to include
my own. Having lost my native ground, I want to
become native to this
place. But by most folks' standards, including our neighbors
here in Floyd
County, I'll never be able to claim this word. Traditionally
in this
region, it takes three generations before an individual
becomes native--not
my children, but my grandchildren.
In the dictionary in everyone's head, I want to change
the word "native" to
mean:
--one who lives in a particular place;
--one who loves and defends this place and its many communities,
human and
non-human;
--one who practices this love by living respectfully,
improving the health
of all communities, learning the many histories;
--one who listens closely, (what are we missing in our
deafness?);
--one who learns the language of the place; and
--one who seeks divinity in all.
Given this definition, I'm slowly becoming a native,
slowly learning the
history and knowledge of this land. I want it to claim
me, as I claim it.
Though I question the traditional definition of "native,"
I respect the
suspicion given to newcomers; I've read our nation's
history. Too many
outsiders have caused too much damage to be welcomed
so readily. But so too
have the "insiders" caused great damage as they pave
farms for Wal-Marts
and cul-de-sacs. Our old definition of "native" has emphasized
time over
all else. Instead, we need to base its meaning on love
and health.
I like to imagine that my great-grandparents moved back
to Pennsylvania
because of Brice and Ida's homesickness-they loved the
mountains too much.
I've visited the old homestead in Kansas where Ida birthed
Grandpa, felt
the immense difference in terrain between Kansas and
Pennsylvania, known
the absence of mountains on the horizon and the homing
pull to find those
mountains once more. My great-grandparents knew they
needed to return to
their native ground to be happy, and they were able to
act on this need.
Those of us who have lost this choice of return must become
native in a new
and different place.
Jim Minick is a writer, an educator at Radford
University, a contributing columnist
for the Roanoke Times, and along with his wife Sarah,
grew blueberries on their
Floyd Farm, but now live in Wythe County.
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