Entry 11: Uprooting
It gets harder every time—leaving the place we call home over summer and winter breaks (and maternity leaves and sabbaticals and pandemics). Or maybe we’ve just gotten better at putting down roots. We did that literally during this sojourn in Ohio, planting garlic, salad greens, sugar snap peas, herbs, tomatoes, and ornamental flowers in the garden we inherited when we moved onto the five acres formerly occupied by my husband Nate’s sister and her family.
I’ve been struggling to find the words to describe this transition. I’ve also been struggling to find the time to find the words to describe this transition (such is life with a six-month-old who hates naps). What I can describe, quite effortlessly, are some of the things I will miss:
Our fun-loving, free-wheeling family. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I won the lottery when it comes to in-laws. The Malenkes like hanging out with each other—often over a cocktail or a home-cooked meal (see below). They help each other out with childcare, errands, and farm projects. They’re the kind of people who will climb onto your ice-covered roof to fix a leak and who will gladly give you the last of their eggs when you realize you’re a few short. They’re easygoing, quick to forgive, and funny. And they’re incredibly generous—particularly Grammy (Patti)`and Dipdop (Todd), who spent dozens and dozens of hours this summer entertaining their six semi-feral grandchildren. Speaking of the wildlings, it’s a joy to see the love my kids have for their cousins. Their lives are richer for all the trampoline jumping, kiddie-pool splashing, make-believing, dancing, and troublemaking they do together.
Our homeplace. In December, we moved into “The Leesburg House”—a cabin in Deer Spring, the community of homesteaders where my Nate grew up. The house (which retains the last name of the couple who built it) has been in our extended family for the last few years and just passed hands from Nate’s sister’s family to ours. There’s a lot to love about our dwelling—the wood floors and ceilings, the cozy woodstove, the screened in porch off the side of the kitchen. But what I love most is that it is surrounded by wilderness. I can sit on the porch and listen to robins, chickadees, and woodpeckers. I can send my four-year-old outside to play by himself. We can walk out our door and go exploring in the woods or hunting for wild mushrooms. Of course, living in a cabin the middle of nowhere is not all birdsong and hygge. Poison ivy brushes my ankles every time I climb out of my car. Slugs wage war on our tomatoes. And the crown of a tree that fell during a late spring storm is still resting against the western wall of our house. I wouldn’t mind a bigger kitchen and a better air conditioning unit either. But I still (mostly) love it here. Being tethered to young children means that I don’t get to spend as much time hiking and backpacking as I’d like, but living in the woods sustains the part of me that craves the wild. And did I mention we have wonderful neighbors? No? Well, they really are wonderful.
Our close-knit community. We have something here that feels rare at this juncture in life: friends and acquaintances whose lives frequently intersect with our own. I’m talking about the kind of casual, (mostly) spontaneous encounters that are common in high school and college but become less common in adulthood, as people’s lives become more structured, insular, and (often) preoccupied with careers and childrearing. It helps that everyone knows everyone, that our lives are relatively unscheduled, and that we have a lot of shared interests. During this stint in Ohio, we’ve enjoyed potlucks, food trucks, and trivia nights at the Wooly Pig; float trips on the Tuscarawas and lake weekends at Apple Valley; swims at the KOA pool; chance meetings at Lake Park; games of croquet; and, for Nate, plenty of board game nights and pickup games of ultimate frisbee.
Coshocton County. Popular culture and media are rarely kind (or accurate) in their depictions of rural America. And I’ll admit, when I first visited Coshocton County, I had certain preconceived notions about what such a place might (and might not) have to offer. But most of those stereotypes have been proven wrong (or at the very least, oversimplifications) time and again. Something that recently struck me is that I have much more diverse friend and acquaintance groups here than I’ve had anywhere else, ever. I regularly spend time with folks who are young, old, and everything in between; who believe all kinds of things about God and the universe and the way the world works; who span the socioeconomic and political spectrums; whose highest levels of education range from middle school to a PhD; who grew up down the road or who grew up halfway across the world. I love how this place has shown me that it’s not only possible but incredibly important to build relationships with people who initially strike me as “other” (my first instinct was to write “people who aren’t like me,” but I’ve come to believe that no one is essentially “not like me” and that we all share values or experiences that can bridge our differences). This small place has broadened and challenged my worldview, and it surprises me all the time. Some of things I’ve enjoyed with my fellow Coshoctonians this summer: attending summer children’s programs at the local library, art park, museum, and gardens; dedicating a new historical marker that tells the story of Henry Howard’s 1885 lynching; dancing at free outdoor concerts in downtown Coshocton all summer; and celebrating the release of my book with friends, family, and community members.
The food and drink. We feast like royalty (probably more like the Tudors than the Windsors, but still.) For example, a recent menu at Nate’s parents’ house included chips and salsa (made almost entirely with ingredients from the garden), homegrown pole beans, corn on the cob from a local farm, a venison roast from a deer shot by a neighbor, chantarelles foraged by my father-in-law that afternoon), homemade sourdough bread, and fresh pie made with berries from the garden. Meals like this are not uncommon, especially in the summertime. I love being part of a family that likes to cook and to eat. The highlight of this season? Celebrating my father-in-law’s 70th birthday with a four-part progressive dinner. Todd went bust with his first social security check and ordered a bunch of fancy seafood. Each family in our extended family provided a dish a signature cocktail. We started at our house with steamed clams and mojitos. Then we moved on to Patti and Todd’s for grilled lobster tails and French 75s. Next came lemongrass curried shrimps and Thai basil gimlets at Aaron and Lauren’s. And finally, we feasted on seared scallops and halibut and Pims cups at Jael and Kevin’s. Now that’s how you celebrate seven decades of life!
The Wooly Pig. In 2017, Nate’s sister Jael and her husband Kevin opened a micro-brewery specializing in German beers on the farm they share with Aaron and Lauren. It’s a pretty special place that has become a home base for all of us. The beers are great, and the farm setting (complete with actual wooly pigs) is really charming. There’s plenty of space for the kids to run around while we sip, relax, and hang out with friends—and the regulars are some of the kindest, most generous, most interesting folks around. I’m glad to have the perfect hang out spot a five-minute drive from my house or a twenty-minute walk through the woods.
The shop. It’s a joy to see the person you love in their element. For Nate, that’s making knives in the blacksmith shop where his artist father forged metal sculptures for decades. Nate made his first kitchen knife for me soon after we began dating, and it’s been incredible to see him grow from a hobbyist to an accomplished and sought-after craftsman. The kitchen, hunting, and butchering knives he makes are things of beauty. And knifemaking is a perfect match for a man who is part artist and part engineer—a creator and experimenter with a knack for problem-solving and a dedication to getting the details just right. I think he undersells himself and his creations (which drives me a little crazy), but I also love that what propels him is the pleasure of making an exquisite tool. It makes me happy to see him happy, and after a good day in the shop, he comes home whistling.
The ease of living lightly. There’s just something about this place that make my values seem more attainable than aspirational. Simple living, reducing my carbon footprint, seeing myself as part of a broader ecosystem, investing in relationships, resisting consumerism—they’re just part of the way of life here, not conscious choices or sacrifices we have to make. I love that so much of the food we eat is grown or raised or foraged right here. I love that we engage in alternative economies—Nate recently traded a knife for meat from a local butcher. When we cared for our friends’ farm while they traveled, they let us keep the berries we picked for them. Neighbors just help each other out—lending trucks, labor, expertise. Everyone composts their food waste (or feeds it to their chickens), hangs out their laundry to dry in the sun, and reuses and repurposes before throwing things away. Nature is the biggest source of entertainment here. No one bats an eye if you don’t wear makeup or if you wear your clothes until they fall apart. It’s nice. I wish it were this easy for me—and for everyone—everywhere.
Uprooting is hard. But I am grateful for the time we have here. And I look forward to returning every chance we get. In the meantime, I’ll be homesick.
