I’ve always been a city gurl, but for the past few years my soul has craved slow, quiet, country living. Over a decade of tracing my family lineage led me to just the place.

Anthony and Emmerett were born in 1847 and 1841, respectively, as captive slaves in this town.

They had fifteen children who eventually became “freed” slaves turned sharecroppers in this town. Anthony and Emmerett’s children birthed our family’s first generation of “free” babies in this town. The earliest of those babies was my great-grandmother, Ozelle, born in 1914. This newly “freed” generation never forgot where they came from. They raised us “free” Black babies that followed as best they could and taught us the way of life as they had come to know it.

Today, this town is a place where there are more Colored cemeteries than traffic lights, a runt Piggly Wiggly is the only grocery store for many miles, and the total number of slaves owned by residents in 1870 is greater than the current total populace. There’s certainly not much here. Yet, I can’t help but to feel I have everything I need.

I ride past the street named after my uncle onto my hard-earned driveway into my five acres of uncharted pine forest. There’s nowhere else in these “united” states that I’d rather build my forever farm than the place where my late, great ancestors built theirs. The wifi isn’t always strong, but the connection to nature and my roots is.

This land has never ever in its existence been developed. It had long been owned by a local timber company. It is raw land in every sense of the word and requires much of me. Here, on this patch of Earth I’m blessed to call mine in this small town, I’ve got BIG plans for a happy new year spent deepening my roots…for many years to come🙏🏾.