A Warm Quilt Wrapped Around — an essay

— an essay by Debra J. Elliot from FOLK Best of Story issue

Many years ago, when I was around the age of five, I can remember visiting my grandparents' home. Because my father was in the military, we did not get to spend that much time with his parents, so every visit was a treat. They lived in a meager home on a six-acre farm. My grandfather. Alamander Mullins, made his living working in construction, mostly building houses for the surrounding communities. As a matter of fact, my father helped build the house that my grandparents lived in. Alamander could build the most beautiful houses around, but he chose to live simply. His own house was just put together with plywood and no insulation to speak of-only newspaper or rags in between the slats. I remember the house being very cold in the winter, and the only source of heat was the huge black wood stove in the kitchen and the fireplace in the living room, which was fueled by coal and wood.

When we stayed with them, my sisters and I would stay in a bedroom next to the kitchen. Back then, we were small enough to all sleep in the same bed. All of us would bundle up in that bed with at least three or four heavy homemade quilts, with no sheets at all. I remember long before daylight, my grandfather starting a fire in the wood stove in the kitchen, snow outside and frost on the inside of the kitchen windows and us in the bed, warm as toast. Shortly after that, you could smell the wonderful scent of homemade biscuits and gravy.

Every morning, when we got to the breakfast table, my grandmother, Maudie Mullins, had a table full of food: biscuits, gravy, bacon, sausage, pork chops, and every other breakfast food you could imagine. Even though I was just barely old enough to see over the table, I will never forget my grandmother asking my mother if I could have a cup of coffee. To say the least, as I was five years old, my mother opted to give me a glass of milk instead.

The scents, the warmth, as well as the feeling of being safe, will be forever ingrained in my mind to my grandparents' house. I still have a couple of the quilts my grandmother made, and they always remind me of those cold nights spent under those quilts. So when my granddaughter comes to stay with me, I have a fire going in the fireplace, quilts on top of her, and, when she wakes up, the smell of homemade biscuits.

There is nothing better than the smell of wood burning in the fireplace, biscuits in the oven, a warm quilt wrapped around you-nothing beats the sweet comforts of home!

— Debra J. Elliot

The Gardener’s Creed

— by Bailey Van Tassel | from FOLK’s Revival Issue | photos: Caitlin Kraina

I believe that a human’s greatest confidence and pride come from tending the earth, in a give and take that is abundant in giving, more than taking. 

I believe that hard work and attunement to the seasons require patience, restraint and response to nature that build resilience and a kind character.

I believe that gardening nourishes the mind, body and soul, giving to our families what they most need: honest food, quiet harmony with nature, and small challenges to overcome.

I believe that my children are learning lifelong skills and lessons that will indelibly inspire them and shape their future, and those after them.

I believe that the best things in life are indeed simple and free: the scent of orange blossoms covered in dew, the pushing of a seed through its casing, the sight of a bumblebee falling asleep on a sunflower.

I believe that reverence for that which is beyond our control makes us better.

I believe that caring for the tiny species upon whom we are irrevocably dependent, the bugs, the birds and the butterflies, requires us to live greatly and beyond the thought of ourselves.

I believe that planting a tree whose shade I will not sit in will be how I leave my mark.

This Land

Story & Photography by Melissa McArdle

This story originally appeared in the Winter 2012 issue of FOLK

This is a story, a true story about our land, our hills, our rivers, our America.  It seems in today’s world, we do not connect enough with the glorious land that our country is so blessed to call home.  Often times, we all just need a little reminder to kick-start the deep love that sits nestled within our hearts for this bountiful land beneath our feet, providing food for our tables, and resources for our survival: this land we proudly salute as the United States of America.  

So imagine this, a cabin built by the hands of two settlers in the late 1930’s.  A place which never found a marker upon a map, no address, no utilities, just a place to call home a few weeks out of the year, a place far from society, and any modern conveniences that were or ever would be available.    Located in Northern California near the border of Oregon, this log cabin has been passed down from one generation to the next.  A hobby of fishing turned into a legacy of preserving and remaining one with nature.  

This story came about because a friend procured the help of another friend in restoring a deck.  What seemed a simple request turned into a list of must-do’s before actually arriving at the cabin.  By foot, one must walk 6.5 miles over mountain passes and streams in order to reach the desired destination.  Horses or mules are used to carry up to 150 pounds of food and supplies.  Once there, one arrives at what some might consider nirvana: a place of solitude surrounded by pristine nature.  A land mostly untouched still offering its magnificent gifts of sustainability in the purest form.  

The milling of a 150-year-old Douglas Fir (which had fallen in a 2008 fire) into new deck planks is how the restoration began.  Two days of laborious work rebuilding a deck which overlooks crystal clear water filled with an abundance of fish.  Water so pure, one can fill their cup and drink right there on the spot.  Imagine the stars which blanket the sky from one horizon to the next, no artificial lights to outshine the magic of the night.  Sleeping bags offer the best night’s sleep on the newly restored deck with an extended roof-line to shield from the occasional downpour that passes through from time to time.  Sounds of tree frogs, a swooshing river below, and the freshest air offered only by a remote wilderness are the elements gathered to lull one into a deep slumber. 

It is places like this that need to be cherished and remain untouched.  In a time when many do not even know where their food or materials come from, it is reassuring to connect with stories, places and people who offer the link to what America used to be: a land that was cared for, nourished and maintained in every aspect, for there was a bond between man and land, a bond of respect for the resources provided and used. Nothing was wasted and every use was carefully planned and considered in regards to the end-result.  A cause and effect for past, present and future inhabitants is a thought process which should still be upheld by one and all.  

America is full of bountiful secrets, mountains, rivers, forests and valleys that are brimming with inspiration. These gems of nature are this country’s pride and joy, and as with any precious gift, it must be handled with the utmost respect and care.  Let’s follow the lead of past generations, and learn to live as one with the land, for the roots of America is a true story worth fighting for.  

Ponderings

an essay by Shannon Ashby | 2011

When the Old Beda Road was replaced by highway 231 North and South, a valley had to be filled in order for level construction on the new road to continue. The path of highway 231 was originally called the Buffalo Trail or Trace. Native Americans followed buffalo across the shallows of the Ohio River into Kentucky territory where hundreds of buffalo left the river, about where Frederica Street in Owensboro is today, and headed south along the same corridor year after year. The state highway department contacted my grandfather, Orville Tichenor, the landowner. They offered to build a large pond in exchange for the dirt that was needed to fill the deep gully. Sources of water at that time were scarce — no city water … just wells, cisterns and a few springs from which people and animals could drink. Water on the west end of the farm would allow cattle to graze if this small pasture and corn patch could be fenced. Fencing was too expensive, at the time, for my grandparents, but it eventually happened.

The pond was an exciting place for the Beda Community. Couples and families drove in on the large pond bank and emptied their cars for a day of swimming, picnicking and fishing. Often, farm trucks, fancy color cars and other 1940’s vehicles lined the banks. At night it was a favorite place for lovers, or ornery people, to “park” or drink liquor and beer. I never visited the pond at night, but my Papaw would walk to the top of the hill and see if he recognized any of the cars parked there. Oftentimes he would whisper their names to my grandmother.

Beda Cumberland Presbyterian Church used the pond to baptize church goers and wash away their sins into Christianity. It helped a lot because no cattle used the pond at that time and stirring the water helped keep the pond fresh as opposed to stagnant. Church members would walk or drive from the small white wooden church to the pond and the preacher would wade into the water up to his waist. He would then beckon those on the bank, waiting to be baptized, to wade to him. He’d place one arm around the new Christian and raise the other hand high toward heaven, his shirt sleeves dripping with pond water, and pray loud enough for all the gathering to hear. The new convert grabbed hold of his arm as he lowered them backward under the pond water and lifted them back to their feet. It was an inspirational moment that gave you a pacified feeling as church members sang all four stanzas of “Just as I Am, or “I Surrender All”… acapella, in four part harmony.

I remember our closest friends and family, Jerry and Wanda Allen, being baptized in that pond. The pond banks were lined with people around the shallow end. It was a place of notoriety for there were no other farm ponds as close to the highway and church as ours. I think at least one bird dog was converted there as well. Often times the family farm dog followed his master into the water only to be affectionately dunked by the minister. And so it was — the pond on our farm became a significant part of Beda’s social and spiritual life.

After the newness of the pond wore off and the church started sprinkling as a form of baptizing new members rather than immersing them, a new era began. The pond was one of my thinking spots. Mom and I lived with my grandparents for a time and my grandmother (bless her heart) could send me into the “squimmin’ mimmies” in a short period of time. Papaw, who was calm and never laid a hand on me, was totally opposite. When Mamaw got in one of her moods to convince me of my guilt, total unworthiness and to assure me that I was bound for hell, I’d slip out of the house with my Australian shepherd in tow, go around the bend, over the hill and down through the late summer corn and sage brush to the pond bank and pour out my heart to the tiny ripples created by the warm weather breeze. At that time, I was a lonely, only child, with no one to talk to; furthermore, there wasn’t anyone to talk to my Mamaw either. I think most folks were about half scared of her. I’d stretch out on the bank of the pond and listen to the warm breeze, or a slow moving car that occasionally passed. I’d stay just long enough to keep from worrying Papaw.

Twenty years later we fenced in the property and my parents built a small barn to house a flock of as many sheep as we could afford. “Pop O” found twelve ewes from Wyoming – a different breed with white faces. He paid over twenty dollars apiece for them. They grazed the fence line and kept it picked clean. They also kept the pond bank cleared and it could still be easily seen from the highway. We’d always had sheep on the big farm, but not near the pond by us. Sheep are a different kind of farm animal. They attach to their human family like pets. They are sensitive and can be scared to death if you aren’t careful.

Dogs posed a big problem to sheep. If they ever got into a herd and started running them, most ewes would fall on the ground from exhaustion. If you didn’t get them up as soon as it happened, I guess they’d lie there and die with lambs standing by their side. We had one horrible experience with Jerry Allen’s bird dog, Queen. Queenie got off the chain by her dog house and ended up in our sheep. It was mid-winter and the pond had iced over, but not too thickly. The lambs hadn’t started coming yet and the herd hadn’t been sheared. On this cold, snowy, day, Queen scared the sheep and I imagine she circled them. The whole lot ended up on the pond ice, scared, with a dog constantly barking and barking. The ice broke through and we lost every one of them. The pond was too far away from the farm house for anyone to hear Queenie barking. It was devastating to find all the sheep, their wool and lambs gone. In a brief discovery, the sheep could be tracked to the pond, their wool had caught on low branches, briars and underbrush while they tried to get away, but they couldn’t save themselves and we weren’t home to help them.

Later that evening, Jerry Allen came to see Pop O. He held his hat in his hand as he walked into our tiny kitchen. He was a dark-eyed, handsome man and a cousin of my mother. He’d come home from work and found Queenie off her chain and with some evidence that she’d been into something. Wool was tightly pulled about her collar, blood on her face and chest, and she was wet. He told us he’d heard about our sheep falling through the ice and thought Queenie was at fault. He didn’t have to come to us or admit to his dog killing our sheep, but being the man he was, he did. He had a home-owners’ insurance policy with Farm Bureau so we were partially compensated with a check for $200.00

Often, when I look into the vivid green hue of the pond, I think about all the community excitement and the sheep that were there, but that’s been nearly 60 years ago. I’ve ice skated there, all alone, enjoying the quiet…away from Mamaw. I could escape into any world and be anyone I wanted. It was a healthy escape that took me to places so far away that it would take me hours to get where I was going and hours to bring me back again. I’ve canoed and paddle-boated on that pond. It served as a background for a beautiful prom party for one of my sons. We gathered dozens of home-made lanterns filled with sand and lit candles. They cradled the pond’s shore line and gave off a magical glow in the water and on the pond bank. It cast flickering shadows in the woods as if fairies magically created it all.

We don’t allow many people to fish or swim in the pond anymore. Fishing and enjoyment are just for our children, grandchildren and other family members. I even turn people away when they ask. I’ve been known to walk to the pond and tell people to leave for there are some people who don’t ask permission. I guess that’s selfish, but times have changed and so have people.

The pond is fairly well hidden and grown up more now. Her banks are surrounded by birch, cedar, and sycamore. In the spring she becomes forty shades of green and reflects her surroundings like a huge vanity mirror. Buck bushes provide a home to red winged black birds in the summer. This time of the year, I can hear the spring peepers and see a few tadpoles that will become bull frogs. A dead snag of a tree in the water permits turtles to sun …big ones and little ones all bunched together basking in the warmth of the day. The blue gills begin their dance soon. Occasionally there will be turkey or deer tracks around the shallow side. I have one special place, between two pine trees, where I buried Abigal, my favorite cat. This pond has served her purpose well. Papaw deeded her to me when I was twenty-something, to help teach me responsibility and to appreciate her history. We care for her now, no sheep, no traffic, no diving board …just a haven for her wildlife.

Now the pond gives off the sound of the filament being cast from an adventurous family member’s reel and the occasional sound of a frisky bass breaking top water on warm summer nights. It’s time for her to rest now and let us enjoy her beauty. I have to respect her and keep her safe in the winter of her years. I enjoy seeing her every morning as I look out the front windows of our country home. She may look a little differently each day, but I can smile at her and know that we share the same secrets and the passage of time. Those things never change on Shannon’s Acres.

American Made: Mark Albert Boots

Our story with Mark Albert Boots is in FOLK’s Slow Living issue.

For Mark Barbera a love of well made boots has turned from a sketch and a dream into a full fledged business that hopes to keep a decades old Pennsylvania boot factory alive.

I’m the founder of Mark Albert Boots. It all started when I was a freshman in college in 2015. My style had began to mature beyond sneakers, which led me to the Chelsea boot – a popular, versatile boot for everyday wear. The problem was that I could not afford the likes of Common Projects but did not want to skimp on $90 H&M either. Upon further research, there was really no middle ground. I was home over Thanksgiving break when I had shown my Dad some sketches of Chelseas that I designed. He told me that I should take them to the “local factory” and see if they would make them. First, I had no clue that a local boot factory existed, and second, I was sure they would want nothing to do with a 19 year old and his ideas. 

Regardless, by my father’s insistence, I visited the factory with my sketches. Long story short, I was granted the opportunity to make this design a reality but I had to meet a nearly $13,000 minimum order. At the time, I was working landscaping in the summers and had about $550 to my name so I was a bit discouraged. After some thinking, I decided to pay my friend (and still my content creator to this day) about $300 to make a Kickstarter video. Kickstarter ended up really well and we sold just over $22,000 in 30 days. This gave me what I needed to get started. 

I became obsessed with the factory, its story, and its capabilities. This factory has roots in our town since 1948, and I was fascinated by the potential. Since then, I have shown my products at the most prominent wholesale tradeshows across the globe, from NYC to Florence, Italy. Today, we are a Direct-to-Consumer brand, selling the best product we’ve ever produced at the best prices through our website.

I think that its important to support the trades that still exist today in the US. It is easy for us to shop based on the best price, given that there are so many options from foreign manufacturers on the market. However, we rarely think about the repercussions of our fast-fashion culture today. Beyond the immense environmental damage caused by the disposable nature of products today, it is also the driving force that is crushing middle class America and further separating the rich from the poor. I firmly believe in buying far less, far better things. Also worth noting, just because something is “Made in USA” absolutely does not mean it’s the best. However, due to the competition from the global economy, those brands still manufacturing in the USA have found that quality is the only thing that will keep them in business, as the prices inevitably will be higher due to higher labor costs.

Our greatest strength is our experience. We can combine over
60 years of bootmaking heritage with modern sales and marketing strategies to completely revitalize this factory, or that was the plan, and its working already in a short year since the real implementation of our direct-to-consumer model.

Our greatest struggle is workforce. Sure, we need to update machines
to modernize the process a bit, but ultimately, workforce will make or break our factory. We have employees here who have worked here for over40+ years, following their mother before them. We have some excellent younger workers as well, but it’s a systemic problem these days to findyounger workers who both value the craft and also value hard-work. Lets face it, the younger generations are entitled. Its sad that everyone thinks they must go to college to be successful. Unfortunately, that has led to a swarm of kids who really would have been better off going to trade school or apprenticing at a business (like ours), who are now stuck swimming in debt. My goal is to really show younger workers

why they should invest their careers in this factory- we are not just
an assembly line. We are a group of incredibly hands-on, skilled craftspeople and our workers should be compensated as such.

I personally love supporting American-made because I’ve found that my clothes last longer, my food quality is higher and so and so forth. It’s been a challenge in the past to find, for example, t-shirts, that are Made in USA. But now, there is no excuse given social media, the internet, and amazing venues like Shop AF who promote American-made makers across the country. Some of my favorites (mostly clothing) are: 3Sixteen, Shockoe Atelier, Bradley Mountain, Jungmaven, Witness Co, Dehen 1920, and Ball and Buck.

Oh man, there are so many about the employees, but I will leave that
to the Meet the Makers section of my website. A super amazing story to me is the way that my family personally ties into this story of Mark Albert.
As I mentioned, the factory is here in Somerset, PA where I was born and raised, and where my family has been for almost three generations. I was in the factory one day, probably 8 months or so after I started working with them, when I was approached by Bill, a partially-retired mechanic and guru of all things mechanical in our factory. He says, “Joe Barbera was a great man,” and I’m thinking “Who the hell is Joe Barbera? My uncle?” then it hits me, he is referringto my Nonno (great-grandfather).
My Nonno was an immigrant from Sicily who was a master shoemaker and cobbler here in Somerset after settling coming to the States. Bill continues to say “Joe used to come into the old factory when we were first getting started and talk shop, give advice and answer any questions about shoemaking that we had.” I was shocked because I had never even met my Nonno, he had passed before I was born, but here I was, standing in a factory where my family heritage has come full circle. It was a surreal moment.

The business has come so far since the beginning. I was honestly just
a nuisance to the factory when I started, sort of that young kid who gets in the way. Now, after taking Mark Albert Direct-to-Consumer, we have seen 246% growth in one year. Our line is exciting, we are growing a strong social media following, and we are building profitable boots

for the absolute best value that the consumer can find out there. The best part is that its been authentic from the beginning, no smoke and mirrors, just following a passion and working with the fine folks who have given me the opportunity since the day I first walked in the door.

I am planning on acquiring the factory this year. Its been a two year process, but it seems like we are finally approaching an agreement.
It has been incredibly tolling, but I am so excited to carry on the torch and hopefully evolve this business in ways we have not yet imagined. We have so many opportunities on the horizon.

In owning the factory, its no longer just about Mark Albert. We have 50 employees and we make thousands of pairs of boots a year for Mark Albert, our work boot line, Silverado, and our other brands. We hope to expand the reach of Made in USA footwear by private labeling for several large retail partners and brands. Lots of uphill climbing to do, but I am so excited to be on this journey.

A New Era of Quilting: A Conversation with @farmandfolk

I adore the work of Farm & Folk. They have brought quilt making into the new century in the most beautiful and timeless ways. Familiar classic time honored designs with a fresh feel. I wanted to learn more about Sara, the owner, and her story. | This story originally ran in FOLK’s Tourist Welcome issue.

I’M SARA BUSCAGLIA OF FARM & FOLK AND ANCIENT FUTURE FARM. I’m an organic farmer and textile artist. I work with natural dyes derived from plants and minerals and apply them to organic cotton and linen fabrics, then use the fabrics to make heirloom quality hand-stitched quilts. My family grows a lot of the food that we eat and we’re always striving to be more self-sustainable in that way.

I first became a maker when my first son was born and I took time off from farming to care for him. I found myself a little lonely and needing something to do, so my friend convinced me to buy a sewing machine and a few patterns. That’s how I learned to sew and suddenly I was making my son little clothes and then making myself clothes. Sewing eventually led to knitting and when we bought our farm we got a flock of sheep, which led to me learning how to spin wool into yarn, which led to natural dyeing, and so on.  I think making is like that. Once you make something, the maker’s mindset is instilled in you. You think outside the box of buying something already made and learn how to make it yourself.

Quilt making came to me totally out of the blue about eight years ago. I had been sewing garments for my kids since they were born and had a scrap basket that was overflowing with all the remnants left over from those garments. I was going to send the scraps to the thrift store but had a sudden urge to attempt to turn them into a quilt. That first quilt was a simple patchwork-square quilt, and it came together much more easily than I expected it to. In my head, quilting was something that was very difficult, but it turned out to be a very fun and inspiring kind of challenge, and suddenly I was a quilt maker. That discovery of quilt making was so fulfilling to me because I was able to turn my passion for sewing into an art. Cutting up fabrics and creating expressive shapes that in turn became functional pieces of art felt and still feels radical.

To me, a quilt is a preservation of the maker’s love in the form of fibers and stitches. The colors and patterns that the maker chooses tell a unique and personal story. A quilt can be like an autobiography in that way. My mom has a Cathedral Window quilt that my great grandma made, and it’s a true expression of who my great grandmother was - the bright colors she used on a white background, and her perfect hand stitches. I have quite a few quilts that my grandma made which I was lucky to inherit, and they too are very much an expression of her personality. The brown and white solid and calico fabrics and the perfect tiny hand stitches tell her story and reflect who she was. My mom makes quilts that tell her story, and now I make quilts that tell mine. My choice to naturally dye fabrics, the style that I use to cut the fabrics up and sew them back together, and my imperfect hand stitches are an expression of who I am and my values.

During my journey as a quilt maker, I’ve learned so much about the history of quilts. For example, in 1856, an 18-year-old man named William Perkins was experimenting with synthesizing quinine, an anti-malarial drug. In an experiment with aniline he obtained a black precipitate, which he then extracted in alcohol to create a purple color, which he discovered was an amazing light- and wash-fast dye on silk. He patented his discovery in 1856.  This was the birth of synthetic dyes, which very quickly extinguished the natural dye industry because synthetic dyes were very cheap to produce and easy to apply. So all dyed fabrics and textiles, including quilts of course, were naturally dyed until 1856 when synthetic colors took over.

I believe that once you find your passion as a maker it’s all about commitment to your craft. It has taken me years to become confident in my work with natural dyes and the colors I create, and in my stitches and seams. Putting in the time and research and energy to improve my skill set, to dig deeper, and constantly evolve, is what keeps me going. It took me seven years to learn how to achieve a beautiful strong red on cotton fabric with madder root. These big achievements and the many, many small ones along the way are what keep me going and growing.

At this point I think my biggest success so far was in finding the confidence to launch my website. To put my work out there and begin selling it. That was such a giant leap. I wasn’t sure if anyone would be interested in my quilts, and when they began selling it was such an amazing feeling. It really helped me to have confidence in my work and to make more and to evolve and expand and improve.

Of course, along with successes come failures, but I don’t let the failures get me down. Most disappointing to me was perhaps the experience of failing at making a strong red dye for seven years. Projects that don’t work out after spending hours and hours of working on them can be very frustrating, but failures are so necessary! If I fail at something I get kind of obsessed with figuring out how to succeed. Failure is probably my biggest driving force.

To me, “slow living” means intentional living. You plant the seeds and take care of the plants, weed the garden. You are committed to that work. Harvest is the long-anticipated reward. It’s the polar opposite of buying something on the internet and having it arrive on your doorstep two days later. It’s building a fire on the hearth in winter from the wood you chopped on a hot summer day. It’s canning peaches from the peach tree you planted 15 years ago. It’s the selfless act of planting trees and caring for them and watching them grow slowly with the understanding that those trees will benefit generations of stewards that will come after you.

The biggest part of my way of slow living is planting my garden of food and dye plants. I also plant trees – they are the epitome of slow living! I raise chicks every spring and witness ducklings hatch. I bring in the harvest and fill the larder every fall with the food we grew in the summer. I tend the fire all winter and sew quilts made from fabrics I dyed with plants, and I hand stitch them. And then I do it all again when spring comes back around.

There’s a huge disconnect in modern society. Most people have never thought about where certain things come from. Folks go to the mall and buy a bunch of clothes but don’t really think about what they’re even buying or who made it or how it got to the store. Once I began making things it helped me to connect a lot of those dots. I began thinking about the work that goes into making a dress, for example, and where the fabric came from and how it was dyed and what kind of pollution those processes may have caused, and the people who worked in the factories and what they were exposed to. I don’t necessarily try to inspire people to think about these specific types of concepts but I think that when people see me making a quilt from scratch for instance, and they see all the work and love that goes into creating the colors, it really helps to encourage them to think about ways of slow living. I think when people see other people living slow lifestyles it helps to connect the dots of, for example, where food comes from and all the work and love and commitment it takes to produce it. It’s really easy to be unaware of these things because of all the distractions out there. Ads telling us to buy this and that. It’s not like you hear anything about food production on the nightly news or see garment factories and all the egregiously bad conditions that commercial agriculture workers and textile producers face. There’s plenty of information out there about it but you have to actually look for it, which is difficult when there are so many things distracting us.

I love the saying “do what you can with what you have.” I think that’s a great piece of life advice. Also, knowing that it’s the little things that can collectively turn into really big things. I think the most difficult part in life is making a decision about what you want to do. Once you make the decision, you find a way to make your plan happen and you get there one small step at a time.

I never really thought “I want to be a farmer,” it just happened, and I have never regretted it. I quit college two years in because it was time to choose my major. My advisor kept handing me this printed-out list of majors and told me it was time to pick one, and that I could always change my mind if it didn’t work out. There was nothing on that list that felt right for me and I felt like it would be a big waste of time and money to blindly choose a career. I quit school with the intention of taking a year off to figure out what I wanted to do. I met my husband a few weeks later and we eventually planted a garden which kept expanding and turned into a small farm. We got a booth at the farmers market and that’s how I found my career. It felt right so I kept at it. I figured it out by process of elimination and some good luck, hard work and dedication. I hope to never lose my inspiration because that’s my driving force. To make mistakes and learn from them as a person, as a farmer and as a business. To constantly evolve in all aspects.

Farming has taught me everything. It has been my biggest influence. When I’m out in the field pulling weeds or hoeing and I hear the birds above me, the insects buzzing, I think about the worlds of microbes and mycelial networks at my feet. It’s a serious vibe. It’s a connection to nature and to the food I grow that I cannot describe in words. It’s something you have to experience to understand. I can pause to watch an ant colony in action and gain a better understanding of the world through the ants. When I see the generations of crops sprouting every spring and returning to the earth every fall it reminds me that I am only here for a short time, that I too am part of that infinite life and death earth cycle.

Autumn is the smells of coffee, green chile, and hashbrowns in the morning kitchen. The golden light and crisp air. We harvest our potato crop in October and that always feels like a holiday. We have potato soup for dinner every potato harvest day. We harvest the pumpkins and dry beans and dry corn and store it away in the cellar. We light the fire again and give thanks for this good life.

Southern Cornbread: A Story by @bethkirby

Our lives are like layers of soil, histories heaped upon histories, stratified by the major events in our lives. We can rediscover all manner of fossils and artifacts, and in turn fertile topsoil can cover the volcanic ash of the past. We have an infinite capacity for growth, rediscovery, and change, and as I’ve gotten older I’ve rediscovered many things: my feet on the earth, the kitchen, and Tennessee.

— Elizabeth Kirby

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My grandmother’s cornbread was a crisp golden brown. It was cast iron. It was a mason jar of bacon grease kept in the cupboard and a jug of buttermilk in the door of the Frigidaire. It was “home again home again jiggity jog”. It was Lincoln logs. It was sitting at her dining room table looking out the sliding glass door onto the back porch where we cracked walnuts and my brother and I smeared lighting bugs onto the pavement in senseless acts of childhood iridescence. It was torn into pieces into a glass of milk and eaten with a spoon. It was badminton and the smell of birdseed. It was childhood, and it was her.

Until a month or so ago when I finally decided to make it myself, I hadn’t tasted cornbread like hers in fifteen years, really didn’t eat cornbread at all. Didn’t bake it either. It might as well of died along with her when I was fourteen. At least it seemed that way for far too long. I didn’t expect her to die when she did. I wasn’t prepared. I hadn’t taken notes. I didn’t know what they would do with all her preserves, and I wept. There just didn’t seem to be anything to be done about any of it. It was hard, losing her, and for a few weeks I tried to pretend it simply hadn’t happened. She was like a second mother, and it appeared to me like some impossible necromancy to attempt to make that cornbread, so I just never did. Grandmother was dead, and cornbread was over. That was just how it was or so it seemed. Around the time she passed away I was beginning to develop that girlish sort of madness common at that age, and over the course of my adolescence I drifted farther and farther into the self-obsession that is being a teenager, and by the end I’d forgotten about cornbread, fireflies, badminton, and all that.

But. That was not that. Our lives are like layers of soil, histories heaped upon histories, stratified by the major events in our lives. We can rediscover all manner of fossils and artifacts, and in turn fertile topsoil can cover the volcanic ash of the past. We have an infinite capacity for growth, rediscovery, and change, and as I’ve gotten older I’ve rediscovered many things: my feet on the earth, the kitchen, and Tennessee. In this past year I’ve also put many things behind me, and as I form a new layer in the geological history of my life there is again cornbread and cast iron and therein lie fragments of the intricate, complicated histories of both myself and the south.

Cornbread in milk (or buttermilk) is an older southern midnight snack: when the day’s cornbread had become dry it was torn into pieces and soaked in milk and eaten with a spoon. Last month I sat at my dining room table and eagerly crumbled a piece of cornbread into a glass of raw milk for the first time in fifteen years. The taste possessed the same immediacy of memory as a familiar scent. I almost cried. I was effervescent, prattling on in excitement about how “it’s just like...just like”. None of it was gone at all, not her, not cornbread.

As for the ingredients, I use freshly milled corn from both Simple Gifts Farm (a beautiful roughly hewn mix of blue, red, and yellow corn from the Signal Mountain market on Thursdays) and River Ridge Mills (a finer textured yellow corn from the Main Street market on Wednesdays). I prefer to use the former for the coconut cornbread and the latter for the buttermilk as it gives it the most traditional taste and texture, the one I remember. I use Cruze Farms Buttermilk and bacon grease from Link 41 bacon that I save in a dedicated mason jar. I often use canola oil or coconut oil in place of the bacon grease in the buttermilk cornbread, content to merely smear the bacon drippings on my pan.

CAST IRON CORNBREAD

Whether you like it slathered in butter or drizzled with honey, plain or with milk like I take mine, each of these two variations has it’s own virtues. So I give you cast iron cornbread, two ways: the classic buttermilk and bacon grease cornbread of my youth and my own nouveau southern interpretation using coconut oil and cultured coconut milk. Southern food is an ever evolving, living organism with new innovations constantly being born of traditional recipes, and I think making the food your own is important. It keeps our cuisine vital. So feel free to play with fats, the cornmeal, the liquid, and various flavorings. I’m a purist so I don’t tend to put cheese and the like in my cornbread, but that doesn’t mean you can’t. These recipes are blank slates for endless sweet and savory variations if you like.

BUTTERMILK BACON GREASE CORNBREAD

Ingredients

1 1/4 cup (175 g) cornmeal

3 tablespoons flour

1 teaspoon salt

3/4 teaspoon baking powder

3 tablespoon bacon grease, vegetable oil, or shortening

2 eggs, lightly beaten

1 cup (240 g) buttermilk

1/4 teaspoon baking soda, dissolved in a bit of water

Bacon grease for greasing the pan

Heat oven to 425°. Grease a cast iron skillet with bacon grease and place in the oven while it heats. Mix the first four ingredients in a medium mixing bowl. Cut in the fat with your fingers or two knives, mixing well until you have a sandy texture. Combine the eggs and the buttermilk, add to the dry ingredients, and mix to combine well. Add the baking soda and stir to combine. Pour the mixture into the hot skillet and bake for 20 minutes. Invert onto a plate. I like to serve it upside down with the nice crispy side up like she did.

CULTURED COCONUT MILK CORNBREAD

Variation

Substitute 3 tablespoons refined coconut oil (you need refined coconut oil as opposed to unrefined to withstand the heat of baking) for the vegetable oil, and 1 cup of cultured coconut milk (can be found in the dairy aisle usually next the kefir) for the buttermilk. Grease the skillet with the coconut oil as opposed to bacon grease.

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10 Years of FOLK: The Best of Issue

This issue was supposed to come out in December 2021, but the tornado that hit the farm delayed its release. It is now printed and ready! We hope you will order your copy today.

Eleven years ago we started the FOLK journey. Okay. umm, typing that feels insane. I don’t think I’m fully grasping what I am typing. Taylor Swift plays in the background. The farmhouse is filled with art, American made goods, and miscellany, the garden is growing, life is slow as the cicadas sing along to the speakers and I sit here at my dining table with my laptop and a glass of ice tea and write this again…eleven years ago we started the FOLK journey. Wow. It has been a journey. The highest of highs and lowest of lows of my life and I wouldn’t trade a single triumph, success, failure, or lesson for anything. I thank each of you for joining us on this journey, for allowing us to grow, to fail, to learn, to make mistakes, to explore, to wander, to ramble, and to journey together. 

This coming 2023 we will explore those first ten years on social and on the blog, but in print we will launch what I feel is the best product we’ve ever created…our ten year best of issue. It is our new standard softbound book format and is the very best of the best of our stories from the first ten years. If you’ve never ordered anything from FOLK, this is the thing we ask you to grab. It will NOW. The pre-order on it is really important as we have no idea how many to print. The issues is currently printing so it will mail the first week of January.

The issue takes us from issue one up to the current issues. We do a heavy focus on our favorite essays, American made profiles, and recipes. This is one of those books you’ll want on the shelf for many years to come. 

We designed it for those that have joined us for this journey…a journey that started as a college summer project and has grown into a global community of those seeing to live authentic. 

FOLK: BEST OF

The First Ten Years

Full Color

Stories from all ten years of FOLK. Over 20 stories, essays, and conversations + recipes

If you would like to order click here | If you would like to carry it in your shop email wholesale.folk@gmail.com

Christmas at Home with Johanna Parker

A sweet tradition of opening our home and offering eye candy delights for the gift-giving season will see it’s 10th year this December! As such, a Colorado Christmas would not be complete without a visit to our annual Holiday Folk Art Show & Open House! Folk Artist, Johanna Parker (that’s me) and my husband JP d’Andrimont transform our 1939 cottage home into a cozy holiday shop each year. After weeks of shuffling furniture, decking the halls and walls and arranging my holiday collectibles, we are ready to open and share the spirit with friends!

Snow often blankets the ground and frosted flurries fall, creating a nostalgic winter wonderland for guests. Vintage Swing-style holiday tunes fill the house as collectors frolic in to see the latest curios I have created for the season. One of a kind snowmen, Santas, wintery owls, cats, mice and such traipse across the mantel and dangle from feather trees. These hand-crafted papier mache delights serve to both spread smiles and often can hold sweets. Guests arrive early from both near and far in hopes to acquire a one of kind character or more. Alongside originals, I also offer a fun medley of my licensed designs. Signed figurines, ornaments and illustrated notepads create a well-rounded blend of wares. Lights twinkle, candles flicker and the sweet scent of spice and hot cider fills the house. The mood is magical, and guests meander from room to room collecting special treasures along the way to give as gifts and to keep.

The festivities take place on the first weekend of December just outside of Denver in Lakewood, Colorado. Like last year, the exterior of our home is still undergoing an authentic facelift. A cozy vestibule addition is in the works and visions of an arched entry are slowly taking shape. Craftsman of many trades, JP has undertaken this enduring task to revitalize our old home. As we are both artists, the attention to detail and the desire to make custom each and every aspect can be a process indeed! While the visions of a storybook cottage unfold outdoors, the inside is certainly warm, whimsical, cozy and very inviting!

Folks interested in attending this year need only to join my Mailing List for the official invitation. Please visit my website johannaparkerdesign.com for more information on my schedule page.

Springerle Stories: A Visit to Genesee Country Village

Share in this 500-year-old holiday cookie tradition courtesy of our friends at the Genesee Country Village and Museum

TEXT + RECIPE BY PAM FRIEDLER WITH DEANNA BERKEMEIER PHOTOGRAPHY BY GOOR STUDIO

SPRINGERLE IS A TYPE OF MOLDED COOKIE THAT HAS BEEN PREPARED FOR HUNDREDS OF YEARS. Some of the earliest springerle molds found in Switzerland date back as far as the 14th century. The molds used to make springerle were usually carved from wood or made of clay or metal. Some of the earliest images portrayed in springerle were Biblical scenes, and they were used to educate those who couldn’t read or write.

Eventually other scenes were carved, and the cookies soon reflected images of holidays, events, and scenes from everyday life. The cookies were also used to celebrate births, weddings, and used as betrothal tokens. Exchanging springerle during the holidays was a common practice very much like we exchange cards today.

Springerle are delightful cookies that take about three days to make, and the outcome is a splendidly embossed, tasty cookie that is lightly crisp outside and wonderfully soft inside. Once the cookies are molded, they must be left uncovered for 12 to 24 hours to set a crisp crust with a sharp, clear imprint that holds when baked.

Traditionally flavored with anise, one 1787 receipt (recipe) we have that was translated into English from the original German has the dough laid on top of a pan strewn with anise seeds as the flavoring. These days the flavor possibilities are only limited by your imagination and the wide variety of flavoring oils available on the market. Springerle can be stored up to three months in an airtight container, where the flavor will continue to develop over time.

At GCV&M, we strive for historical accuracy, therefore we have chosen to use a recipe that dates back to the 1600s but has been slightly altered to account for modern changes in flour milling and the fact that we no longer must pound our sugar from a solid loaf.

This recipe, from House on the Hill called “Perfection Springerle,” calls for a leavening agent called hartshorn or baker’s ammonia, aka ammonium carbonate. Hartshorn is a form of ammonia and gives the raw dough a distinct ammonia flavor that will completely disappear upon baking. Hartshorn produces the “spring” (leavening) that helps the cookie keep its delicate internal texture while retaining its crisp embossed top. You can always substitute an equal amount of baking powder for the hartshorn if you need to, but it is readily available online.

When painting the springerle, always mix your color with an alcohol, such as triple sec. Do not use water as it will soak into the cookie, whereas the alcohol will evaporate quickly and leave the surface dry. We paint them with powdered or very finely ground historical food coloring agents, such as beetroot, spinach, black walnut, turmeric, annatto, cinnamon, and cochineal, by mixing the powder with a small amount of triple sec. Most of these, in addition to powdered blueberry, tomato, pumpkin, and more, can readily be purchased online. You can also use the triple sec with modern gel food colors to paint the cookie.

HOUSE ON THE HILL PERFECTION SPRINGERLE COOKIES

These whisked-egg holiday cookies date back to at least the 1600s and were made in Bavaria, Switzerland, and the Alsace area of France. This recipe is just perfection for flavor, ease, and print quality. Historically, springerle were anise flavored. Anise seeds were scattered on the cookie sheet and the molded dough was placed on the seeds to dry before baking.

Makes 3 to 12 dozen cookies

1/2 teaspoon baker’s ammonia (hartshorn) or baking powder

2 tablespoons milk

6 large eggs, room temperature

6 cups powdered sugar

1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened but not melted

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 to 3/4 teaspoon anise oil

2-pound box sifted cake flour (Swansdown or Softasilk)

Grated rind of orange or lemon, optional (enhances flavor of traditional anise or citrus flavors)

More flour as needed

TO MAKE THE DOUGH

1. Dissolve hartshorn in milk and set aside for 30 to 60 minutes.

2. Beat eggs until thick and lemon-colored (10 to 20 minutes).

3. Slowly beat in the powdered sugar, then the softened butter. Add the hartshorn and milk, salt, preferred flavoring, and grated rind of lemon or orange, if desired.

4. Gradually beat in as much flour as you can with the mixer, then stir in the remainder of the 2 pounds of flour to make a stiff dough.

5. Turn onto floured surface and knead in enough flour to make a good print without sticking. Wrap dough tight in plastic wrap or zipper bag and refrigerate overnight.

TO MAKE THE COOKIES

6. On a floured surface, roll dough into a flat pancake approximately 3/8-inch thick. Roll thinner or thicker dough based on the depth of the carving in the cookie press you are using. Shallow carvings will need thinner dough, while deeper carvings will need thicker dough.

7. Flour your cookie mold for each and every pressing. Press the mold firmly and straight down into the dough.

8. Then lift, cut, and place the formed cookie onto a parchment-lined cookie sheet.

9. Do not cover the cookies while they dry. The goal of drying is to set the design. Let the cookies dry at least 12 hours; 24 hours is best. Larger cookies and warm humid weather may require longer drying times. Cookies that are not dried long enough will not retain the beautiful designs, but will taste fine.

10. Bake on parchment-lined cookie sheets at 255°F to 300°F until barely golden on the bottom for 10 to 15 minutes or more, depending on the size of the cookie.

11. Store in airtight containers or in zipper bags in the freezer. They keep for months, and improve with age.

GENESEE COUNTRY VILLAGE AND MUSEUM

Genesee Country Village and Museum is the largest living history museum in New York, the third largest in the country, and was founded with the goal of preserving and sharing architecture of the Genesee region with a focus on life in the 19th century. The founder of the Museum, the late John L. (Jack) Wehle, envisioned a museum village of authentic examples of 19th-century Genesee Country architecture, showcasing the art of typical village artisans. Beginning in 1966, buildings of the style, type, and function found in the rural communities of Western New York State were acquired and reconstructed in the configuration of an early Genesee Country hamlet. Genesee Country Village and Museum opened to the public in 1976 and eventually grew to 68 historic buildings, including a working 19th-century brewery.

The Museum also includes the John L. Wehle Gallery, which houses a world-renowned collection of wildlife and sporting art, and the exquisite Susan Greene Costume Collection, composed of 3,500 rare 19th-century garments and accessories. The Museum is also home to a Nature Center with over five miles of trails and a vintage baseball stadium, hosting a full season of games.

All year long, GCV&M runs a robust season of classes, events, and special programs. The Museum is located 20 miles southwest of Rochester and 50 miles from Buffalo.

Around the Christmas Tree

An Essay by Ellen Tichenor

I suppose it all began a few years before my birth in 1952. My grandparents, Russell and Hilberta Pannett, were visiting a Christmas worship service where the altar table was adorned with a small tree branch wrapped in cotton and decorated. Russell leaned over to Hilberta and said, “If they could do that with a branch, we could probably do that with a whole tree.” I was told those were his words. Thus began the tradition of the “cotton” Christmas tree.

As long as I can remember, my family never had a normal evergreen like most families.But, the cotton tree was truly a family affair. I don’t remember how old I was when I first went with Daddy to cut down the sweet gum tree, for which we had been searching since early fall. Momma was always ready to get started immediately after Thanksgiving, after helping her mom, Hilberta, with her tree.

Each branch of the tree was carefully wrapped with a strip of quilting cotton. This was usually Momma’s job, but we all had our turn to help. Daddy’s job was to put on the lights-C7s, not the little mini lights used today. Next came the tinsel, or icicles, as you might call them. They were gently placed on each limb to cover the entire branch. Then the ornaments were carefully placed throughout the tree. Last of all we did “the bottom.”

My grandfather made a fence in which Momma placed a little village to the right of the trunk. A pebble path led across a bridge (placed over a mirror pond) to the manger scene on the left of the trunk. Newspapers were wadded, and a piece of quilting cotton laid over them for the snow on which the village and manger were placed.

For the entire month of December we had friends over every Sunday night after church to see the tree. Everyone would comment that it was even more beautiful and bigger than the year before. You see, nighttime was the best time to see it. The darkness from the picture window made the tinsel shimmer more brightly from the lights.Many pictures were taken of the tree, but none could capture the true beauty of it.

We didn’t know that the 1986 cotton tree would be the last one that Momma would ever do. She died just 2-3 weeks after Christmas. As far as I was concerned, this tradition died with her-too much trouble if you asked me!

As Christmas 1987 approached, my sister was planning a trip from her home in Indiana to wrap the tree. Over the past 18 years, she has used Mom’s decorations (even the same tinsel) to have a cotton tree in her home if it were big enough and time allowed. Four years ago, my brother’s children experienced this tree in his Utica home.

Despite my thoughts of a dying tradition, I too, will be proud to share a cotton tree with my friends and community this year. My new home will be featured on the Ohio County Hospital Auxiliary home tour December 4. However, the only place large enough for my tree is my bedroom! I am very excited about sharing this tradition, but this will be the last one for me!

Timeless & Classic: Christmas with KJP

No one does Christmas quite like Kiel James Patrick and Sarah Vickers.

I’M KIEL JAMES PATRICK, A BORN AND RAISED NEW ENGLANDER, FASHION DESIGNER, PHOTOGRAPHER, AND FAN OF ANYTHING OLD, TIMELESS AND CLASSIC. My wife Sarah and I formally launched our brand in 2007, but the dream that ultimately came to fruition as KJP began long before that. My high school, Bishop Hendricken, had a strict uniform policy that I just couldn’t abide by. Luckily for me, I was handed down my grandmother’s sewing machine. I started making fabric bracelets for my friends and me to wear under our uniforms. Man, I must have made at least a thousand of the first KJP bracelets on that machine.

Shortly after that, I met Sarah – we were two teenagers crazy in love, with big dreams. We’ve spent nearly every day together since then. We always had long conversations about where we saw ourselves in the future, and we kept returning to the idea of working for ourselves and creating something that was both unique and representative of our New England lifestyle. We are both avid collectors of vintage clothes, and our first foray into fashion was selling old clothing under the name Wicked Vintage. A lot of our original ideas for KJP were born out of that endeavor. Working with vintage fabrics and patterns, we were invigorated to try some new takes on classic fashion accessories.

We used any materials we could get our hands on at first: old ties, vintage pants, beat-up shirts, and of course rope, to design our accessories.

We’ve always had this untamed ambition and a steady sense that we’re living out our own version of the American Dream. Eventually, we hit our stride, and started our first KJP workshop in the space above my parents’ garage, hand-dyeing hundreds of ropes a day in old lobster pots we found in the attic. Thankfully for everyone’s sake and sanity, we’ve moved out of my parents’ garage, and now the lobster pots are reserved for Memorial Day Weekend.

In many ways, KJP has developed and matured alongside Sarah and me. When we first started out, we’d spend any free time we had at the beach, riding bikes in Nantucket, sailing in Newport, and having bonfires at Beavertail Park -- long summer days with the ocean as the backdrop to all our adventures.

That was reflected in the designs and products we were making at the time. Back in those days we were only an accessory company, focused on nautical “New Englandy” summer styles. Moving through life together, we grew, we changed, we became more well-rounded people and in turn a more well-rounded company. What you see from KJP now reflects where and who we are today. We have our own family with our own growing traditions. More than ever, we really highlight the four seasons that New England is famous for. Those breezy carefree days at the beach have blended into family beach adventures with sandcastles and lots of sunscreen.  And for every trip to Nantucket there are two trips to the mountains for a cozy cabin getaway. That’s why KJP nowadays reflects a total seasonal indulgence. The Cozy Cabin Collection is basically all the things we love to wear on leaf peeping trips, decorating the house for fall and winter, or spending the holidays with family and friends.

We still love our New England summers but it’s the cold weather months that spark that magic of our favorite seasons.

Our style has developed and really been influenced by my love and appreciation for art, particularly the art that’s inspired my photography, like that of Norman Rockwell and Thomas Kinkade. Their work embodies the ease with which you can get lost in a surreal scene. It’s probably why one of my favorite hobbies is going to antique stores, because there

I’m always finding little pieces of Americana that remind me of a painting, a Christmas card or a page from a book I grew up reading. I love that combination of familiar but fantastical. It’s a welcome escape from the craziness of today’s world, and definitely something I think of when we’re capturing and creating our own photos. When you look at one of our pictures, if it doesn’t take you away for a second and transport you that place and time with a warm feeling in your soul, then it’s not a picture worth remembering. I want to remember every photo I take these days.

My favorite Christmas tradition begins at Thanksgiving. Every year we go to my family’s cabin in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. After dinner we decorate the Christmas tree my parents planted in the yard when they bought the land. When Sarah and I started doing this, the tree came up to my waist. Now it’s about three times taller than I am.

We’ve had to keep buying bigger ladders as the tree grows. But my favorite part is that almost without exception, it snows there on Thanksgiving Day. It’s our oldest tradition as a couple and I really look forward to it. Then it’s a race back inside before my dad and brother eat all of the apple pie.

My favorite New England “staple” is, believe it or not, shoveling snow. I love layering up in the morning, throwing on our gloves and Bean boots and spending a couple hours in the cold tossing some snow around. The best part is leaving your wet clothes by the door while you warm up by the fire with a cup of hot chocolate.

My mom’s gingerbread cookies are easily my favorite Christmas food. My mom’s an amazing baker and she uses a gingerbread recipe from her mom. Every year she and I have a blind taste test to see who made the best gingerbread cookies. Some years she wins, some I win, and the loser always goes home a little bitter, but I guess they go home with gingerbread too, so it’s a pretty sweet consolation. As for my favorite Christmas song, that’s a very hard question! It has to be older than me to make the cut as a favorite, but if I had to pick one it would be “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” by Burl Ives.

That’s more than just a song for me, as it reminds me of being a kid in anticipation of Christmas and knowing this was the one time of year we could watch the Rudolph special on TV. My dad told us it was what he looked forward to most as a kid. No matter what was going on, we watched it as a family together, and to this day we still wait until we’re all together to watch it. Now when the song comes on the radio, I get a kick out Harry singing the same song his dad and grandfather sang joyfully as kids.

Sarah and I got married at Christmastime 2015 at Henry’s Christmas Tree Farm. Henry’s is a special place to us that we’ve been visiting since we were teenagers, and there was never any doubt that’s where we were going to get married. We got our Christmas wish and it snowed just enough on our wedding day to cover the whole farm in a light hue of green and white. It’s definitely my most precious Christmas memory.

Christmas has a way of freezing time. A certain song comes on the radio, or you’re looking out the window when it starts to snow and just for a second you think you might be ten years old again. It doesn’t matter how many years go by, I love watching the same movies, putting up the family’s old ornaments, and even eating the same pot roast I’ve pretended to like for the last 30 years. Tradition is what I look forward to most about Christmas; to me, it IS Christmas. Now, the best part is I get to see it all over again through Harry’s eyes.

Celebrating is going to be a little different this year, but the best parts of Christmas have always been the simple things and I’m really thankful we can still do those. I love driving around the neighborhood to see everyone’s decorations, setting up the projector for Christmas movie marathons, wearing all my classic Christmas sweaters, and drinking too much eggnog with my family. I’ve got everything I need to celebrate right at home.

It's Spectacular: Christmas in New York City with @ethanbarber.co

Christmas in New York City is unlike anywhere else in the world. Ethan Barber shares his memories and images from past years of merry moments.

GROWING UP AS A KID IN CENTRAL NEW JERSEY, DAY TRIPS TO NEW YORK CITY WERE A FAIRLY COMMON OCCURRENCE. My family’s annual Christmas trip to the City however, was by-far my favorite of them all. As far back as I can remember, December has always been synonymous with New York. I can still vividly recall a childhood moment of holding my mom’s hand while walking up 34th Street—the blistering, cold wind stung whatever small peeks of my face were still visible behind layers of my favorite scarf and Carhartt hat.

While the long days of walking around Midtown would quickly switch from fun to exhausting, the magic flowing through the City always made up for it. From the moment I emerged off the escalator at Penn Station on to 7th Avenue, I could physically feel a shift. Car horns were blaring, Christmas music was flowing in the background, and people were rushing in all directions. From the edge of Central Park and the tree at Rockefeller Center, to the Empire State Building and Macy’s on 34th, down Broadway into Soho and even further still; Manhattan was always full of people rushing to get their gifts and souvenirs. While the smell of candied nuts overpowered the city air, an inexplicable energy swirled around me—one that could only be best described as the magic of Christmas—just like in those cheesy Hallmark movies

Ultimately, I think it was these annual trips into the City at the holidays that inspired me to work towards being based in the City full-time. While I love the City and it continues to be the main source of my creative inspiration, I think I’ll always be a Jersey boy at heart. (It’s likely the root of why I refuse to move into New York City proper—I just can’t let go of my suburban roots on the west side of the Hudson!)

My current office is based in Soho, the neighborhood where I derive the most inspiration for my work. From historic cast irons to cobblestone streets, I’m drawn to the most minute details—they don’t make ‘em like they used to!

If you wander into the city on the right winter day, you just might be lucky enough to catch a passing flurry or the beginning of a strong, winter storm. Seeing whirlwinds of snow rush across the historic facades of Soho up to the towering skyscrapers of Midtown is without comparison—just mind your hands and face, or you might catch a touch of frostbite!

Merry & Bright: Christmas with Hayes Cottage

Amy Whyte takes us inside her home filled with vintage Christmas finds and festive good cheer!

I LIVE IN LEESBURG, VIRGINIA WITH MY HUSBAND AND SON, AND OUR THREE DOGS AND NINE CHICKENS. When we first discovered our home in Leesburg, it had been abandoned for 10 years and was in very rough shape. We spent a year fixing it up and moved in 2012. It’s still a work in progress, but I love our home and it’s my favorite place to be. We also have a little cottage in the mountains not far from our home that we are in the process of restoring (@hayes.cottage).

I’ve been part of the Old Lucketts Store since we opened in 1996. At Lucketts, I spend most of my time transforming the Design House, an old farmhouse on the property, with décor and treasures both old and new. I also perform design work on the side.

I love old houses and antique furniture...basically, all things vintage! I have found joy in making spaces beautiful since I was a child. I first started collecting in earnest when I began going to local auctions for my shop. I caught the auction bug fast! There was nothing like the thrill of sorting through rows and rows of treasures at a beautiful old farm. The first thing I started collecting was vintage textiles. I am a textile junkie! Vintage cabbage rose bark cloth, Beacon blankets, old plaid wool blankets, timeworn ticking remnants, classic white pillowcases with sweet crocheted edges... these all make my heart go pitter-pat! For a while, my taste took a turn toward shades of white, but lately I’ve felt a return to my roots of all things color.

My favorite places to hunt for vintage treasures are the Old Lucketts Store and Hip and Humble Interiors in Berryville, Virginia. You never know what you are going to find at either of those places, and they are constantly bringing in fresh stocks of cool old finds at great prices! When I go hunting or picking, I like to make a day of it... I load up all three dogs in the car, hit the local country roads and shops, and try to end the day with a hike at the State Arboretum.

For Christmas, I collect old plaid wool blankets, folky farmhouses, and old toy trucks. I like to decorate for Christmas by bringing greens in from the yard. I take clippings from the pine trees and boxwood shrubs and place them over picture frames or in big bowls around the house. To me, the smell of fresh pine in my home just says Christmas. It’s so simple, and instantly transforms everyday objects into Christmas decor.

For anyone who wants to start collecting, whether at Christmastime or throughout the year, my advice is quite simple: just buy what you love. If it speaks to you, then bring it home! Fill your space with what fills you.

Personally, I don’t feel that I have a particular collecting or decorating style; I just collect what I love. I can say that I am inspired by color and nature. Right now, I’m really into shades of green and brown, and am starting to collect pieces of pottery and transferware in those shades.

My favorite memory of Christmas is a recent one – I love recalling the way we spent the holiday last year. It just didn’t seem right to let our little fixer-upper cottage sit alone on Christmas. So, we packed up a tree, a Crock Pot and a bottle of wine and headed up to the cottage for the day. We clipped branches from the yard and decorated the front door and mantel. We put lights on the tree and made a fire. We had our Crock Pot dinner in deck chairs by the fire. It was simple and quiet and peaceful -- perfect. This year we hope to do the same thing!

— @amycwhyte

Christmas will always be as long as we stand heart to heart and hand in hand.

­— Dr. Seuss

Homestead: Christmas with @underatinroof

Under a Tin Roof (@underatinroof) shares Christmas memories and traditions from the Iowa farm she and her family call home.

GROWING UP, CHRISTMAS WAS A MAGICAL EXPERIENCE MADE UP BY ALL OF ITS SHINY BAUBLES AND ORNAMENTS, the glitter and the flashy wrapping papers. I spent most of my Christmas holidays walking down Michigan Avenue in Chicago and staring with wonder at the decorated windows of Marshall Fields. It was mesmerizing and beautiful to me as a child, and for that, I will always be grateful. Now that I am an adult, I’ve turned to a more simplistic way of living. Christmas is not as shiny and high-strung as before; rather, it feels as if we’ve stepped back in time.

When we bought our Iowa farm several years ago, never having farmed or homesteaded before, we made the decision as a family to live a more sustainable and wholesome lifestyle by cutting out the unnecessary. We loved the idea of an old-fashioned Christmas. You’ll find our packages wrapped in brown paper we’ve saved all year long, our wreaths and garlands are fresh from local farms and our own yard, and we decorate with natural materials that we’ve foraged like pinecones and bittersweet.

We make time for family activities rather than spending all of our time hunting for the perfect gift. While we will still always spend a day or two holiday shopping for the thrill of the season, my hope as a parent is to spend our wintry days baking cookies and sweet breads, decorating the tree, and snuggled up with a warm cup of homemade chocolate listening to a favorite Christmas record. To us, family is everything, and we hope to pass that down to our children as well, when they move on to their own homes and families.

On the homestead, the winter months bring a period of rest. It is about keeping warm. We pile the bedding high in the chicken coop and hang a wreath of evergreens on the door for a touch of fun. The field is tucked in under a blanket of snow and compost to prepare the beds for the spring season. We spend our days by the fire inside, working with our hands yet again on projects we cannot seem to get to when the weather is warm: knitting hats and gloves, decorating our home, and sewing up clothing and quilts. The larder, where we keep the delicious food we grew and preserved over the summer, is slowly but surely emptied ready to be restocked in early summer. Our Christmas supper table is graced by the animals we raised and butchered in the fall, and we say many thanks over what was sacrificed and harvested. Gifts are made with our hands, tied in twine and scrap pieces of fabric. We make new traditions to pass down to our children from the old ones of generations past.

I am not sure that we will ever leave our home here on the farm. Because we live in the beautiful, hilly countryside of southeastern Iowa, we are graced each winter with the gorgeous cover of snow on the rolling fields. We are lucky to live in a place that honors the traditions of older generations, where food is still canned and preserved and cooked upon the stove at home. Christmas makes the place we live even more special, as we gather with friends and neighbors to celebrate the season and say a blessing for the year ahead. I do not know of anything more wondrous and magnificent!

O Christmas Tree

A lifetime of plastic-fake Christmas trees makes way for the annual Christmas tree cutting trip.

IN KENTUCKY, YOU DON’T REALLY HAVE THE LUXURY OF FRESH CHRISTMAS TREES. The stories I’ve heard about people going out to the old mine lands and cutting a cedar tree truly confuse me. Every cedar tree I’ve ever known has bent and bowed with the addition of even the lightest ornament or light. I’ve also learned that pine trees, while pretty, aren’t particularly shaped to be a Christmas tree. Beyond those two imperfect choices, you are pretty much left with “fake” down here in the Bluegrass State. Today, the options for fake trees are endless, but twenty years ago, the stereotypical cone-shaped green fake tree was all that could be found.

I believe there is a real science to fake Christmas tree development.  Right now, as you read this, there is someone in a lab (yes, a literal laboratory) creating more advanced fake Christmas tree varieties and technologies. In some small way, those people will change the world. However, on countless farms across the country at this very minute families are celebrating the time-honored tradition of cutting their family Christmas trees. In a world where chocolate and vanilla soft serve can swirl out of the same machine, I believe we have a place for both fake and real Christmas trees. This year I have already put up ten fake trees, and before it is over there will be at least one real one in the mix.

I grew up in the 90s with strictly the fake variety of Christmas tree, for the reasons explained above. In Kentucky, we simply didn’t have fresh tree farms, and even the Boy Scouts quit selling them down in front of the grocery stores sometime around 2000. Ours was a Walmart special bought in 1994 at the Walmart that is now a Mexican restaurant in town. It claims to be a six-foot tree, according to its box, but you and I both know it is a five-foot tree at the very most. That extra foot of alleged height only comes into play if you stretch, pull, and fluff that long branch on the very top like Alfalfa’s hair in The Little Rascals. That tree is currently displayed next to a bright green velvet sectional in my backroom. It is looking rough after twenty-five years, but is still going strong.

There is one place in our town that does sell live Christmas trees, but they truck them in from Alabama, which feels weird to me. I’ve only ever bought one tree from there, but I do highly recommend their fruit baskets. However, each year I do buy a live tree, be it at a random tree farm out in the country or somewhere in the Catskills. I wouldn’t say I am a Christmas tree expert by any means, but I have learned a few things over the years.

My first lesson, and one I still don’t fully understand the logic of, was the lesson I learned the year I cut down a tree for a photoshoot, but forgot that I had to actually buy it. Somewhere it escaped me that I had to take the tree home with me until it was being stuffed into my car for the forthcoming two-hour drive. I’m not sure whatever happened to that tree. I think we ended up keeping it until June to use for crafts.  I guess the moral of the story is, make sure you have the right vehicle to transport your tree home, and a place to put it once you get there.

Another lesson was: just don’t buy a blue spruce. One year before I knew better, I was really specific that I wanted a tree that looked like it belonged in Martha Stewart Living. For the record, blue spruce isn’t one of those, but I was cold and hungry and just ready to cut anything I saw. If a porcupine could be made into a Christmas tree, it would be a blue spruce. Spruce needles became literal needles as they dried. Skip the blue spruce. Just skip the blue spruce.

There is something magical about a live Christmas tree. It is equal parts nostalgia for the images of the past, and the general peer pressure that the perfect Christmas must include a live Christmas tree. Homespun Christmas trees bedecked with homemade ornaments and shiny glass balls fill the photos of the past, making us feel that to achieve the perfect Christmas, we must have our own photo-worthy tree.

If I were to offer any form of advice for cutting a live tree it would be to be realistic about the size, and to measure – both your home and your potential tree. Your living room is a much smaller scale than what a tree looks like on a farm. It is way too easy to end up cutting a tree that you think will be perfect in your living room with its eight-foot ceilings, only to find you’ve cut a ten-foot tree.

I do believe that there is magic in the annual trip to the tree farm: the search for the perfect tree, the thrill of cutting it yourself using the hand saw, carrying it to that silly little machine that cuts off all the extra branches and wraps it in netting, and figuring out how to best secure the tree to your roof with the hope it won’t launch into oncoming traffic, Final Destination-style, as you head down the New York State Thruway at ninety miles an hour. The magic is especially tangible in those years when snow is on the ground, the sky is grey, and the chilly weather is just right. The year I took these photos we were lucky enough to find that true magic. These were taken at Bell’s Tree Christmas Tree Farm near Accord, New York.

I used to believe that a tree had to look perfect; it had to be Martha Stewart Living-level perfection. Yes, that is a common theme in my belief systems. Over the years though, I’ve realized I like trees that just feel good. Over-the-top trees that look like art installations or a clearance sale at the Hobby Lobby are fantastic and awe-inspiring, but I think the magic is in the idea that the tree is an altar to all the ornaments and memories it supports.

Many of us get lost in the quest for the perfect Christmas. We have somehow convinced ourselves that everything has to be across-the-board perfect. For many of us, we also don’t have a clue what that perfection looks like, yet we ruin the season and the holiday while on that fruitless quest. We are just racing and searching for a goal that isn’t even real. I’ve learned that Christmas is a season much more than it is a day. It is a vestige of an era where we lived slow, lived authentically, lived within our communities, and lived as families and neighbors. Christmas, in my opinion, extends well beyond the religious connotations that are oftentimes connected with it, and represents a more universal set of ideals. I’ve learned that for me, the secret to enjoying Christmas is stripping away the pomp and circumstance of perfection and truly enjoying what makes you happy during the season…be it 50 pounds of pralines and fudge, a half-dozen fake Christmas trees, an endless supply of Cozy Cabin sweaters and socks, sneaking candies from tins in the side room, seeing Santa up on the top floor at Macy’s after a stroll through Rockefeller Plaza, a trip to the Christmas tree farm, retelling the stories of cussing angels, sending cards, or simply enjoying the season with family and friends.

This year, whether it be a brand new fake tree, a worn-out fake tree, a grocery store variety “live” tree, or a freshly-cut farm tree, I urge everyone to create a Christmas tree and a Christmas season that make you happy, but for the love of God, don’t get a blue spruce.

10 Years of FOLK: The $500 Giveaway

Over the past ten years we’ve been blessed to know so many makers, creatives, small businesses, and American made brands. You’ve seen many in our pages and even more on our social. We want to say thank you to them and to you with our 10 Year Giveaway. What is a party without a gift?! Welp this is a big one!

THE GIVEAWAY:

In late August we are releasing our hardcover 200 page best of issue of FOLK. 72 of our favorite stories from the past ten years. A good chunk of those will be stories about our favorite makers. To enter this epic giveaway simply pre-order your copy of the issue HERE and go to the post on our IG and tag your favorite maker. If you’ve already pre-ordered you’re automatically entered. For an extra entry share the post to your IG story.

On August 1 we will announce one lucky winner. The winner will receive a $500 credit to their favorite American made small business/maker/creative. You both win + you’ll have the hard cover best of issue to enjoy!

Good Luck

CHURCH IN THE WILD: JK Winders

I suppose a proper introduction is where I should start things off. My name is Joshua Winders, but most people call me J.K. I am an artist of many trades, full-time explorer, and red head with a soul. I’ve been a collector of different hobbies and interests for quite some time now, and I’ve always sought ways to combine then in unique and special ways. For well over a decade, photography has been my primary outlet and where I invest most of my creativity. However, after graduating high school and being freed from the confines of English and Creative Writing prompts and assignments, I began writing about things I actually enjoyed writing about and subsequently develop a deeper admiration for the written word. 

My latest book, Off The Beaten Path, regales some of my most treasured adventures across the dusty recesses of the high deserts, through the lush forests of the Pacific Northwest, and among the wondrous Canadian Rockies. The book also delves into the ideas of what it means to explore and discover the enlightening parts of the world and in turn within oneself. While I am very proud of all of the experiences documented in this book, I’m extremely excited to share with you a little bit from my own favorite chapter that recounts some of my first experiences among thew Grand Tetons in Western Wyoming.  

THIS ARTICLE ORIGINALLY APPEARED IN FOLK’S FALL ISSUE | ORDER HERE

THERE ARE SOME PLACES THAT ARE ALMOST TOO MAGNIFICENT, TOO BEAUTIFUL, AND TOO WONDROUS TO EXIST IN THE REAL WORLD. They are places where earth ceases to exist and heaven shines through the natural veil. These places drill into the deepest reserves of awe and wonder stored up in your soul, and creates a path for unadulterated joy and splendor to burst forth from. They are places that make you feel that just by being present, existing, and resting in their goodness makes you feel a part of the symbiotic flow of their grand scheme. The Grand Teton mountains nestled between the valley of Jackson Hole and the western border of Wyoming is one of these places.

When I was growing up, my parents had one of the walls decorated with black and white photo prints of the American west by Ansel Adams. One such photograph featured a shimmering river winding through a great open valley and a domineering, craggy, snow-capped mountain range in the distance with foreboding clouds overhead. It was a scene that, at times, made me feel uneasy because of its gargantuan and intimidating ambiance. Of course, this was at an age before I discovered how wonderful it was to feel minuscule and manhandled by the forces of nature. For a long time, I thought that this photograph was actually a painting. There was no way that this place could actually exist. It was too majestic, too striking, too grand. But it did exist, and one day I would come to call this one of my favorite places on earth.

The first time I set eyes on the Grand Tetons, I was cresting over the mountain pass to the east of the valley. Looking west beyond a road that drew my gaze straight to my destination, I saw the jagged peaks framed in front of an imperious blanket of storm clouds. I had never seen something that was equally terrifying as it was beautiful. From miles away, I could feel their gaze and hear their siren call beckoning into their dominion. That feeling lingered over me until I stood in their shadows that sprawled across the wide-open valley floor. The eleven, twelve, and thirteen-thousand-foot summits that formed the massif of the range were unobstructed by any foothills or gradients. They were standing naked and bare before me displaying full, geological prominence. All I could do was stand in humble reverence at their undressed, flawless, irreproachable glory.

Wonders such as the Grand Tetons expressively make one so aware that God is magnificent and fully unlimited in divine, creative power. When you witness great art, you feel the heart and intention of the artist. I truly believe God wanted us to experience Heavenly sensations on earth, so He gave us mountains. He gave us these incredible, exalted, awe-inspiring mountains. Countless photographers, painters, and poets have summoned at the base of the mountains to seek out their counsel of inspiration. They have spoken many truths to innumerable individuals and have granted them the vision to carry out amazing feats, create beautiful art themselves, and seek peace in a chaotic world. They are the greatest advocates for sincerity and virtue that I have come to know in this world.

The Grand Tetons are a church, the same way an art gallery or an orchestra hall can be a church. A church is not just a set of four walls, a few rows of seats, and a man behind a standing podium telling you how to live your life. Church is a place where your soul is fed and nourished. It’s a place where the body and mind can slow down and receive the goodness and blessing of a loving father. Works of art hanging in a gallery can speak that into people, music played by an orchestral ensemble can speak that into people. I like to think that there are places on earth, natural places, that God designed and created for that purpose; To speak beauty, righteousness, and truth into people’s souls and spirits. The first time I laid eyes on the majestic peaks, I cried. Not because it made me sad or emotional, but because it was true. Truth is beautiful, and beautiful things often-times make me cry. 

My mom and dad raised me with the knowledge that attending church doesn’t make you a beloved son of God. But instead knowing God and taking the time form my own, unique relationship with Him is what counts. When you know God, really know Him, you see his signature on more moments you encounter and find that He wants to meet way more often than every Sunday. Mom and dad never wanted me to limit what God could, how He could speak, and where He could be. I’ve found that the more I’m able to see God’s fingerprints on the earth, the more it helps me see the better in the entire world than the worse. It helps me see beauty when it is not obvious. It helps me know when Heaven has collided with earth. 

Heaven seems to feel a little bit closer among the Grand Tetons. I know I’m not the only one to feel this way. Many paintings, photographs, poems, and songs that have been inspired by this place echo that tactile sense. Heaven is found predominately in regions of peace. I have had the joy and the pleasure of being able to experience peace in many different places. But it had never felt more tangible than it did while I was sitting on the dew-soaked ground wrapped in a warm wool blanket sipping cowboy coffee from a tin mug as the rising sun set the mountains ablaze. Time had never felt so non-existent and the rest of the world had never felt so distant. Some people may say that peace is a choice you make, but that doesn’t feel like the case in Grand Teton. Instead, it is a mandatory part of the culture that you can’t help but feel obliged to adhere. 

Grand Teton is a place where harmony is found for those who yearn for it. It’s a place whose beauty rivals that of even St. Peter’s Basilica, the Notre Dame de Paris, or any of the most opulent, gilded cathedrals in the world. It is a sanctuary of serenity, of natural, divine artistry, and abundant grace. I can remember the feeling of worry and anxiety melting away from my being as I basked in the shade of these monumental peaks. It’s a place where I experience goodness and wonderment. The valley floors, tranquil meadows, alpine lakes, braided rivers, and the celestial mounts work in tandem to create deep-rooted connections with whoever cuts their path across them. Many have visited and many have left, but this place stays firmly imprinted on the heart like red on a rose. This is my church, and it’s a little wild like me.

When you stand on the edge of the mesa overlooking Snake River and the great peaks looming in the distance, an overwhelming experience is created. Some times you can go a find perfect solitude, and sometimes you can be standing shoulder to shoulder with dozens of tourists and other photographers. It’s a special view and one that many people have come to recognize. Thousands, if not millions of photographers, painters, and sketch artists have stood at this spot and captured the view before them. 

Who knows whether or not he was the first to capture a photograph at that spot, but he certainly set the standard for all who would follow. I wonder what that moment was like when Ansel stood at that very spot on a chilly evening in 1942 with a Hasselblad, a Karona view, or some similar tool in his possession. There was no platform, no parking lot, no information plaque, no point of reference. Just the untamed, natural wonder set in front of him. 

I wonder how long it took him to compose his shot, adjust his settings, and wait for the conditions within the frame to be just right before he clicked the shutter. I wonder if he was aware of the trail he was blazing at that moment, if he knew how many walls his iconic, monochromatic prints would hang from, or if he thought about the countless photographers that would follow in his footsteps and attempt to recreate his image.

Of course, there’s also a part of me that imagines exactly the opposite. There is a definite possibility that it was just an ordinary moment in the mountains for him. The only thing he was ever known to focus on was the visualization of the final print before an exposure was ever made. One thing is certain about Ansel Adams; he was a master of timing and discovery. I like to assume that in some way he was in tune with divine guidance. I like thinking that when God whispered a location in his ear, he was there at the perfect moment. Mr. Adams operated in an age when people created for longevity rather than a brief moment visual sensation. He captured moments so that could truly last forever. 

People have asked me regarding some of my most prized photographs, “Did you know how special this moment was?” And the answer is almost always, “No, not really.” It was just a moment where I was creating and having fun. If it was special, it was so only in an ordinary sense. It’s important to embrace the fact that behind every photograph is just a moment that is yours. Experience it, enjoy it, own it, let it be just a moment.

I thought I knew what mountains were. I thought I had seen some of the most prominent pinnacles that arose from the earth. The Grand Tetons are more than just mountains. They are methodically and wonderfully crafted effigies of the consummate partnership between nature and the divine. There was nothing that could’ve prepared for what they would be like in person; no photograph, no description, nothing that could have provided any shred of justice to their grandeur. There are some places where it is abundantly evident that God was having a good day when He crafted them into existence. The Grand Tetons are one of such places. It’s a place where every refined earthly goodness of the Heavenly Father has been poured out and displayed in a glorious exhibition.

The first time I saw the jagged peaks of the Grand Teton mountain range, they terrified me. They were so prominent, so titanic in their dominance and stature over me standing defenseless in the valley below. Wonder can be terrifying. Feeling overpowered in any way can be terrifying. But it still elevates you past your understanding and perception to a place where you can soar. Even before setting my gaze upon them, I was still terrified of them. I’ve always maintained a little bit of fear of land that I haven’t navigated. It’s mostly just the fear of the unknown and of what might exist or occur. I had built up an idea of what those incredible mountains would be like in person. They were images of incomprehensible, ominous, austere, powerful giants branded on my mind. Those images were terrifying themselves, but I was also afraid of the reality that framed those mentally fabricated pictures. I understand how irrational that may sound. But every new road is explored with a small twinge of fear. 

People are most fearful from afar. They are afraid of the foreign lands that they’ve never been to but have heard of being full of dangerous environments and evil people. They’re afraid of the treacherous mountain pass that may or may not exist between where they are and where they’re going. They’re afraid of the possibility of getting hurt more so than the pain that comes from it. Not being able to see or fully understand something is what adds layers of dread and worry. We fear God because He’s bigger than us, bigger than our capacity of understanding. We fear the wilderness because we don’t know how far it stretches beyond the horizon before yielding. 

The first edition of Off The Beaten Path is currently available on Amazon, with the second edition Hardcover coming November of this year. For more visit jkwinders.com and @jkwinders.

Enjoy the journey!

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THIS ARTICLE ORIGINALLY APPEARED IN FOLK’S FALL ISSUE | ORDER HERE

A STORIED HOME: Small Town Junk

From FOLK’s Slow Living 2020 Issue

Rural Ohio resident Jessi Green (@small.town.junk) has established herself as a curator of storied antiques and vintage pieces. She works with clients and customers to create homes that have a story to tell.

THE LOVE FOR OLD GOODS RUNS DEEP IN ME. As far back as I can remember, I found the beauty in antiques: I would buy trinkets and vintage beaded purses as a little girl. I practically grew up at the flea market, as my parents sold new and antique military goods, and I was rolling around rummage sales in the stroller.

At Small Town Junk my husband, Brad, and I are purveyors of antiques, avid collectors of bits and pieces of history that make homes warm and give individuals an ideal sanctuary they can retreat to.

Brad and I started our business seven years ago after visiting a local antique shop and discovering our addiction to hunting for old goods. I previously worked as a florist and my husband worked in landscaping, so we’ve always had an eye for design, and we jumped into the antique world headfirst. Our company means so much to my husband and me. It’s a dream come true to say I love my work.

We like to think of ourselves as personal assistants in finding gorgeous pieces to fill your home with life and stories. “Putting History Back Into Homes” is our motto. Everyone’s looking for statement pieces, but most don’t think to turn to antiques. Yet the quality and craftsmanship of old-fashioned goods is unparalleled.

Being around vintage goods has made me aware of the beauty in old things, the way wear shows up almost like artwork. A farmer’s shovel has an imprint of his hardworking hands. These little details intrigue me. They are bits and pieces of our history, our story, and our legacy.

New things can be beautiful, but the story that comes with an antique has an immeasurable value. Knowing that someone used this, worked with it, or kept it because it had sentimental value brings joy. Everything had a purpose back then: They didn’t keep old blue mason jars just for decoration, but to use them! The beauty shows up in the details, with a rich history you just can’t find in brand-new products. I like to say that antique buying is not a fad but a lifestyle.

That’s certainly been true for us: Not only do we scout vintage treasures for our customers, but we fill our own home with our finds. I love knowing that our home is over eighty percent antique and vintage. I prefer not to stick to one specific style or era of antiques, but instead buy what speaks to my soul. All the “chaos” blends into a well-curated and storied home.

Our home brimming with vintage gems fits in perfectly in our hometown of Hillsboro, Ohio, a simple town of small businesses, farmers, and historic charm. Our farm is around one hundred years old and is a work in progress we enjoy building together. Right now we’re working on a storefront venue and workspace for our business, a project we hope to finish within the year. We’re carving out the space in a barn on our property. We love the quiet life on our little piece of land and watching it flourish into our sanctuary.

Our passion for antiques is a proud part of our family culture. Brad and I have five children and our family is everything to us. We love raising our children to appreciate the beauty in antiques, and value history, style, and authentic goods.

Antiques are so much more than just sturdy, well-made products. To own vintage goods just for their value is to underestimate them, when so much of what makes them wonderful is the story behind them. That’s why I’m passionate about antiques: I feel as if I’m restoring and showcasing our nation’s history in my living room or bedroom—giving them life and passing them on to my children as family heirlooms.

The technical definition of antique means a collectible object, such as a piece of furniture or work of art, that has high value because of its considerable age. But I would say an antique can be anything aged that you find valuable in your soul. My great-grandmother’s handwritten recipes are framed and are prized antiques to me.

I’ve learned to find value even in the rustiest, dirtiest little objects. It’s a revelation to see how beautiful they look when they’re cleaned up, and transformed as if by magic into stunning home decor or art. One classic example is old bee skeps: We love turning them into floating shelves and risers. They have so much character and look amazing hanging on the wall.

My years in this business have taught me that even as trends fade, some hold on strong. For instance, ironstone collections have been around for years and will never be out of style. I’m always on the hunt for small antiquities that ignite curiosity. I love searching for ironstone pieces and Shakespeare leather-bound books to add to my collections, as well as woven rugs to use in my home and antique frames to hold our family’s photos. For Small Town Junk I search for unique books, vases and mirrors. My customers always appreciate architectural salvage and pieces that they can use in their own homes.

People told me growing up that I was an old soul, but I never understood them until now. My love for old things runs deep in my family; my mom, dad and grandmother taught me how to find the beauty in antiques. Their houses were full of vintage gems and I admired the history of each piece and all my family heirlooms. We’re a family of collectors, from hunting books to hand-stitched quilts, so I grew up learning the ins and outs of antiques.

I love turning my passion into my livelihood, sharing something I enjoy so much with my husband and children, and helping my customers fill their homes with beauty, history, and deep meaning.

FAVORITE PLACES TO SHOP

My ultimate Favorite place to shop is The Springfield Extravaganza Spring and Fall, I can find a wide range of smalls and good antique furniture. I love shopping the Country Living Fair and City Farmhouse Popup, I always find those unique smalls and one of a kind gems there. Summer Market, Over The Moon Vintage Show, and Charm at the Farm are just a couple others we love to shop. Brad and I also love going to auctions and shopping locally.

FAVORITES TO FOLLOW

@86andeverettedesignco, @objekts1, @thetatteredmagnolia, @themaplehouseco, @arstidenbasta, @roseandgracemarket