​(Dear reader, know that "place" can be a piece of land, an idea, or a new way of life.)

Who are pioneers? They are the first people. They are the hardy builders who can do anything or who believe they can, which with time becomes the same thing. They run from a too-civilized, soulless place, or they run to a new and dreamed-of place where they will live freely. Freedom is what pushes or pulls all pioneers toward a new place. Freedom from and freedom to. They do not fear the feel of dirt beneath their feet or fingernails. They run to and embrace it, leaving behind the paved and fortressed cities. Pioneers want to live close to the land. They provide the labor to build the infrastructure for all who come after them.

Who comes after the pioneers? The artisans. They have a bit of the pioneer's spirit but need the comfort of the basic infrastructure that the pioneers have built. They need this infrastructure so that they can do something other than toil to grow their own food all the days of their lives, which the pioneers love to do and take pride in. The artisans come but despise what they first see as isolation and too much work to supply the daily basics, and they abhor the lack of amenities. They either return to whence they came or they set about building a community for themselves to supply what they long for--goods, services, schools, diversions, music, art, and beauty. Because of their discontent and effort, life in the new place becomes more pleasant and lively. A community develops to knit people together and the quality of life is enhanced for both the pioneers and the artisans. 

The pleasantness and liveliness attract the  doctors and lawyers as well as the captains of industry, who supply services, work, wages, and markets to the growing populace. But the artisans begin to feel the strain of competition with the captains of industry, who can do everything cheaper, faster, and to grander scale--but not better. Cheaper appeals to the majority of those who move in after the artisans. The pioneers continue on as they always have for the most part, relying on themselves and oblivious to the changes that encroach.

Such a lively, wonderful place with all its small shops, arts, crafts and quality of life attracts those who have made their fortunes but are now looking to live out their days in ease, in clean and pleasant surroundings uncorrupted by their past business exploits. These are the gentry. They buy up space for their beautiful houses. They buy up space to provide prestigious addresses for their online and global businesses. They just buy up space. 

Because of their rampant appetite for property and space, those who have provided the labor and the quality of life for every blessed thing that the gentry needs are pushed out to the ramparts, but kept close enough to render their services after a long drive for smaller and smaller wages.

Then, finally, come the dissatisfied hoards who have heard what a little gem this wonderful new place is. They all want a piece of it, bringing their dissatisfactions with them. They do not know that they are too late. They do not know that the soul of this place is being sucked from it even as they unload the moving vans. The artisans must leave, some to become pioneers in a new place. The few, old pioneers continue on oblivious, their way of life never changing. They continue to work the livelong day to set food upon their own tables and don't expect anything else. But for the rest, life in this new place becomes difficult.

Nashville, you've just been gentrified.

​It's mid-July and the garden demands as much attention as it did in early spring. The heavy, frequent rains have brought a deluge of green beans, tomatoes, peppers, summer squash, and other fresh vegetables to be harvested and put up for winter. Most days, either the water-bath canner bubbles away on the front porch or the stopcock of the pressure canner rocks and sizzles the afternoon away--a propane tank hooked up to a two-burner device keeps the heat outside on the porch and out of the kitchen. 

Even so, I have grown way too much food for one person. I can. I freeze. I incorporate the bounty into potluck dishes and share it with friends and family. Still too much. I try to give it away, but everyone I know who appreciates fresh vegetables either grows their own or buys from a reliable CSA source--which I totally support and would never interfere with! Others look askance at the little green, yellow, and red beauties and don't for the life of them know what to do with a fresh, uncooked vegetable in their own kitchen. So be it. The damned stuff can rot in the garden or be chicken food.

Thanks to the rains, my farm is greener than I've ever seen it this time of year. My circle of trees has grown close and fully leaved to cradle and cool me in my little house. Despite global warming, and yes I do believe it is real, I am spending less on energy this year thanks to all this lush greenery. Letting nature have her way toward permaculture is paying off in other ways too. On my morning walk, I saw walnut-sized pawpaws developing--a first since I began stewarding this place ten-plus years ago (thanks Patrick Gilliam for your tutelage on pawpaws!). A burgeoning crop of black walnuts and persimmons also have made themselves evident. Speaking of pawpaws and persimmons, I have mead recipes for both! I have perfected my persimmon mead but have not yet attempted pawpaw mead. The recipe that I found for pawpaw mead in Mother Earth News says it's liable to come out a bit "funky"? Aha, a challenge!

The crop that is not doing so well and that I miss this year is the wild blackberries. I usually pick enough for jams and pies and for mixing in with my morning oatmeal. But this year, my growing goat herd has beat me to them. So I have planted a tamer, thornless variety within my fenced-off garden area that will begin to produce next year (ah the ever-hopefulness of a gardener). In the meantime, I will have to content myself and my oatmeal with Bernie's blueberries.

Bernie is a neighbor who farms acres of beautiful blueberries for sale and for U-picking. Bernie is a character worth the volume of writing that would fill a set of encyclopedias, but I will tell you this much. I am not allowed to pick berries this coming Tuesday as is my summer habit because, he says, they will be picked clean this weekend by all of the people he has invited to come out and pick in protest of Marsha, Marsha, Marsha Blackburn, our GOP congressional representative. I am tempted to go support the effort, but currently I am at odds with the Democrats as well as the Republicans, goddamn independent that I am.

Anyway, so goes July on Persimmon Ridge.

​chattfilmfest.org/products/persimmon-ridge

This is a short, 20-minute, black-and-white documentary shot at Persimmon Ridge. I should have combed my hair and wore makeup!