We inherited the farm
There are four of us. Three want to keep it. One of us — the one writing this — wants to be honest about what keeping it costs.
Here is what we inherited: a farm our grandparents worked for decades, thirteen miles from Oxford, Mississippi. A pond with a big tree standing over it. An orchard that half-remembers being tended. A barn with Pappy's Mule still parked inside. A red gate that still swings, a long field that still frosts over beautifully in January, and a house that holds more of the past than a house probably should.
It hasn't been abandoned. It's been interrupted. Our dad meant to retire here and carry it forward — he spent years going back and forth doing exactly that. He died before he could finish the move. The farm has been waiting ever since, the way farms wait: quietly, and at its own expense.
So here's the deal we've made with the place. It has to start carrying some of its own weight. Not a fortune — enough. We'll restore it one project at a time, put real numbers next to real work, tell the story straight, and let the farm make its case for staying in the family.
This journal is that record. First cleanup weekend, first repair, first thing that grows back. If you want the letters when something real happens, sign up on the front page.