By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
Every home I have lived in since moving out of my parents’ house has been named. I have a bit of a thing for a named home. I dare say the homes I have had, and even the one I have now, are not technically the sort of dwellings that merit a name. I suppose that honor is usually reserved for grand historic houses with storied histories like Biltmore and Monticello. While I am not entirely sure what the official requirements are for a home to have a name, I know mine have been far too ordinary for such things. Still, because I love the idea of a named home and all the aura and quiet magic that comes with it, I named them anyway.
I say that as though I have lived in dozens of homes over the course of my forty-five years, when in truth, after leaving my childhood home, I have only lived in two. Now that I think about it, I have actually lived in more homes with my parents than without them.
The first home of my own was a tiny, dated little place sitting in the middle of a hay field. And when I say that, I mean literally. The farmer who lived across the road — I was going to say across the street, but that sounds far too urban — would cut the field with his tractor, leaving untouched only the little acre-square patch that was my yard. Seen from above, I was a rectangle afloat in a grass sea.
There was one tree in that field near the fence line. It was an ash tree, and it gave my little dwelling its name. That first home was Ashfield. The name sounds grander than the place probably deserved, but it fit nonetheless.
Out among the hay I frequently saw all manner of creatures. The cat I had at the time, being the stealthy killing machine that she was, was forever catching rodents hidden in the tall grass. She would even go play with the deer that frequently wandered through, an unlikely little interspecies friendship I never expected to witness. I remember arriving home one evening and having her run to the house alongside me while a few angry whitetails stood nearby blowing and stomping at the indignity of their friend leaving them. I certainly had not seen that development coming.
It was beneath the tree that gave Ashfield its name that we laid to rest a beloved dog my husband brought into our marriage. We lived there for five years after we married, and it was there that his sweet dog Penny lost her life. Though we lived in the middle of a hay field, we were still near a busy road which, combined with Penny’s unfortunate fascination with roadkill and complete lack of fear of cars, eventually led to her demise.
My husband and I wrapped her in her favorite green blanket while we both sobbed, then tucked her beneath the ash tree for her final sleep. Though we no longer live there, we still own the little piece of land where she rests. We do not have the heart to sell it.
It was also at Ashfield that we brought our daughter home from the hospital, though she remembers very little about living there. She was nearing only two years old when we moved to where we live now. There is a new little dog of the same breed who will occupy her childhood memories instead. There is a new cat as well, as the one I had back at Ashfield had the decency to simply disappear one day. I like to think she spared me the severity of a definitive ending and instead wandered off to live among her wild friends. Lord knows, with her hunting skills, she could easily thrive.
Our family home now — or estate, if I may be so bold as to call eleven acres an estate — is named Hawkwood Glen. Our property sits at the dead end of a small road, with grassy fields and meadows wrapped entirely in forest. We have a resident pair of hawks that we see and hear almost daily among the surrounding trees, which inspired the first half of the name. The latter half is a nod to both my husband’s and my own considerable Scottish heritage. Much like the last home, I like to think the setting chose its own name.
It is a far nicer home, with more space and more land. There is still a dog and a cat, and still plenty of wildlife, though both the domestic and wild creatures here live a somewhat more sheltered life. We feed our local deer corn, and several giant oak trees keep our squirrel population remarkably fat and flourishing. Muscadine vines grow so heavily along the property lines that they have begun breaking the sizeable trees they twist themselves around on three sides of the land. The dog has a fenced yard to keep her safe, and the cat has his own hidden-away closet that serves as a private little en-suite.
Everything about Hawkwood Glen feels like a glowing testament to how blessed we have been — first to build deep-rooted memories in a humble little place like Ashfield, and now to continue building new ones in the God-given gift that is Hawkwood Glen.
Neither home would shelter aristocracy nor tell stories of fame and fortune, but both have brimmed with loving and grateful hearts. And if that does not deserve a proper name, I do not know what does.
Prose and Possibilities 