The farm carried us for forty years
Doc and Lorraine Tramel — Pappy and Mamma to everyone who mattered — raised the house that still stands here in 1982, and filled the years around it with the orchard, the garden, the pond, a thousand Sunday afternoons. Our dad meant to retire here. He never got the chance.
Now it belongs to the four of us, and the question has turned around: the farm carried the family — can the family carry the farm?
The house is young, as farms go. This was Tramel ground long before there was a house to come home to — how far back it truly runs, we’re still finding out, one relative and one record at a time.
We make up names.
We never make up places.
Every name below belongs to somewhere real — somewhere you can stand, with mud on your boots to prove it.
The Red Gate
Every visit starts the same way: the latch, the creak, the barn on the rise beyond. If the farm has a front door, it’s painted red and it’s been squeaking since Nixon.
Mamma’s Garden
The swing still hangs under the magnolia, and the beds still remember what Mamma planted in them. Bringing this garden back is the first promise we intend to keep.
The Front Fields
Gold in December, green by May. Pappy rode these fields for forty years, and the evening light still falls across them like it’s waiting for him to come look.
The Tramel Farms
Almanac
Being a truthful guide to the country around Oxford — its farms & farmers markets, orchards & antique stores, scenic drives, fishing holes, & where a person might sleep when the Grove calls on a football Saturday.
The Farm Store
Seven pieces to start — the marks of the place, printed to order on plain workhorse blanks, priced for cousins. Every one helps keep the lights on at the homeplace.
Watch it
begin again
The cleanups, the setbacks, the first tomato out of Mamma’s garden — we’re documenting the whole revival as it happens. Pull up a chair.