Harmony in the Hills
The homesteads of Humboldt and the North Coast share the same lack of paint and that is about all. There is something so charming in their variations that you can’t help love them be they masterpiece or mess. A woman who grew up on one of these homesteads has begun a new blog and I’ve fallen in love again. She meanders through moments from then to her homesteading city life now with equal grace. She speaks about the homes of her childhood in her first post,
It was gray, like all the houses in the mountains. No one bothered to paint the wood, so all the houses ended up the same weathered color. But, that is where the similarities ended. Every house up in the mountains is as unique as a finger print. They go every which way, sprawling out in whatever direction the builder felt like adding a room onto. Usually, the rooms followed a view, or a stream bed, or even a tree.
She speaks about her quiet life in her city homestead in her third post,
Such city dogs! It rains once in a blue moon here and they start up with peeing in the house, then slowly relearn that they need to pee outside but choose the deck rather than get their arses cold for too long by making their way all the way to the dirt. I was better about peeing outside at 3 than they are!
There is something so charming about her writing as she alights on the past or moves to the present that she is sure to delight—especially those who love the simple joys of life.
We made our way back home, down the mountainside, across the creek, and back up the other side to our little A-frame home. The journey had taken over two hours and I was hungry! My mom poured my brother and I each a glass of milk, and we eagerly drank it. It was the sweetest milk we’d ever had! Then my mom took out the jar of cream showed us how to shake the jar back and forth, back and forth. We each took turns, dancing around the small living room, shaking our bodies as much as we shook the jar. Finally, after what felt like forever, the cream in the jar began to coagulate. Little white lumps began to form within the cream. Not too long after that, the lumps formed one large lump and the butter milk separated from the butter. My mom let us taste the butter milk, yucky! Then we tasted the butter. Yum! No salt, but so delicious! We had to wait for the bread to finish baking, which my mom had put into the little propane oven while my brother and I shook the cream.
To pass the time, she pulled out her guitar and we took turns strumming and making up songs. Before we knew it, the aroma of fresh baked bread wafted from the kitchen and filled the house. We could barely wait! My mom carefully cut a slice for each of us and spread the soft butter onto the bread. She showed us how to blow on the bread to cool it and we watched the butter melt into the fluffy whole wheat golden slices. Finally, we took a bite and it was the culmination of a journey I would never forget.
Homemade bread and handcrafted reminisces await you at Harmony in the Hills.
Photo from Harmony’s blog Don’t you love the ubiquitous rubber boots. Every little hippie kid had them and most of the Redneck kids, too.