My name is Marlowe. I am 54 years old, and I have never lived anywhere other than North Hollow, a small village hidden deep in the southeastern edge of the Appalachian Plateau in Ohio. 

People often ask me if I ever wanted to leave, if I ever felt tempted by cities, opportunity, or something bigger. The honest answer is no. This place is not something I settled for, it is something I chose again and again.

North Hollow is quiet in a way that feels intentional. Mornings arrive slowly, often wrapped in fog that settles between the hills. You can hear roosters before you hear cars. 

Seasons announce themselves clearly here, not through calendars but through soil temperature, bird behavior, and the way the light shifts across the land.

Many people my age talk about what comes next such as travel, cities, and even experiences postponed while working years were spent chasing stability. I hear those conversations often, sometimes spoken with excitement, sometimes with urgency, as if time itself were pressing them forward.

I understand the desire and I truly do. But when I look at my hands, they are often covered in compost, soil, feed dust, or feathers. 

Those marks feel earned, they tell me where my energy went. I do not come home from a day of work wondering what I accomplished. I can see it, I can touch it and of course it is in the coop walls I repaired, the birds that settled calmly at dusk, the compost pile quietly warming under my palms.

The Cottage and My Grandmother

I live in a small cottage house with my grandmother, who is now over 90 years old. Sharing a home with her is one of the most grounding parts of my life. 

When I was a child, she raised me with steady hands and quiet discipline. She taught me how to notice when something is off without panic, how to do things properly even when no one is watching, and how care is proven through repetition.

Now our roles have gently shifted. I help her with daily routines, meals, and movement, but she still watches everything with sharp eyes. She remembers more than she speaks, and when she does speak, it is usually to remind me of something practical that still matters. 

Living together has slowed me down in the best way. It has also deepened my respect for continuity, for knowledge passed not through manuals but through lived years.

The Land I Inherited

My grandparents were once known throughout our village for their farming skill. People still refer to them as “those Ohio farmers who could grow anything.” 

They understood crop rotation before it was fashionable. They worked with the land instead of against it. Over time, age took its toll, and one by one they stepped back from active farming. Today, only my grandmother remains.

The land itself is vast, nearly 8000 hectares, much of it devoted to perennial plants and orchard trees. That part of the farm still exists and carries its own responsibilities, but my heart and daily focus lie elsewhere. 

I manage a smaller, more intimate section dedicated to homestead living. This is where observation matters more than output, and where care is measured in years, not seasons.

Why Chickens Became My Focus

I did not set out to specialize in chickens. They arrived gradually, first as a practical addition, then as a daily responsibility, and finally as something much deeper. 

Chickens are honest animals and they respond quickly to changes in environment, routine, and care. If something is wrong, they show you. If something is right, they thrive quietly.

Over decades of gardening, orchard care, and land management, I found that chickens taught me more about balance than any other part of the homestead. 

They forced me to slow down, to watch closely, and to accept that not everything can be controlled. As I grew older, that lesson became more valuable. Raising chickens fit the rhythm of my life, my body, and my priorities.

Why This Blog Exists

This blog grew from conversations, not strategy. Readers began sharing pieces of their own lives in response to mine.

“…Everyone around me keeps telling me to move, to do more, to see more. Reading your blog made me feel like staying is also a choice, not a failure.”

“…I lost my first flock last winter and felt ashamed. Your writing about loss made it feel survivable.”

“…I don’t read your posts for tips. I read them because they slow me down.”

Some readers write confessions rather than questions.

“…I’m tired of pretending I want a louder life.”

“…I thought raising chickens later in life was foolish until I found your words.”

“…Your honesty feels like permission to live quietly.”

Those messages are why I keep writing.

A Place for Those Who Stay

This blog is not about escaping life. It is about inhabiting it fully, even when it is muddy, repetitive, or quiet. It is about choosing soil-stained hands over polished plans, and finding meaning not after life begins, but right inside the middle of it.

If you are raising chickens, thinking about it, or simply questioning the pressure to want something louder, faster, or farther away, you are welcome here. This space is for those who stay, tend, and find enough right where they are.