Once Upon a Farm

by Rory Feek

  Classic Greek revival in style, the house was built in the 1870s. I bought it in the summer of 1999 and spent two years fixing it up. Actually, I’ve spent almost twenty years fixing it up. But for the first two that’s pretty much all I did from daybreak till dusk. Some mornings I’d be on a ladder scraping paint on the front of the house when the kids would get on the school bus, and I’d still be there when the bus dropped them off that afternoon.

  I had no experience fixing up houses and no idea what I was doing (that is a constant theme that runs through this book and my life), but I believed I could figure it out. And so one of the first things I did was go to the Home Depot and buy their big “1-2-3” book. It was sort of a “how to fix up a house for dummies” manual. Unfortunately, even that was a bit over my head, but I did my best with it. I bought a bunch of tools and materials and was soon knee-deep in drywall and sawdust.

  Like me, the house needed a complete overhaul, starting with the foundation. The far east corner, where the kitchen is, had a hard lean to it . . . easily six inches lower than the rest of the house. If you were making dinner and dropped a potato, you’d have to chase it across the floor till it stopped rolling and came to rest against the base of the counter. There were no real cabinets, just a sink on a basin, a stand-alone stove, and a water heater in the corner. We basically gutted the kitchen and started over, floor to ceiling. For the first month or so, there were no counters or sinks in the kitchen at all, so the kids and I washed all our dishes with a garden hose outside the back door.

  Thankfully, I wasn’t working on it all by myself all the time. I had some help at times. Some friends from Franklin or Nashville, who probably felt bad for me and the girls, would make the trip down and help me sand or paint or pull the worn-down layers of linoleum off the plywood that covered the hardwood floors. And at times when I could afford it, I hired professionals to do the really big stuff I knew I couldn’t handle.

  A team came in and shored up all the floors in the house. They were all like trampolines when you walked on them, especially upstairs. I think Heidi and Hopie found the bouncy floors amusing, but I didn’t. Especially when I got the bill for the piers that were poured and the specialty-cut beams that were installed to reduce the “give” under each room’s floor joists. Those bills were painful, but they were necessary. I soon learned that you can’t just make something look pretty on the outside; it’s gotta be solid all the way through, or you’re gonna regret it.

  Another team came in and redid the downstairs hardwood floors. The girls and I moved in with our neighbor Danny Potter and his wife, Carol, for a few days and came back home every afternoon to check our answering machine for any calls we missed. Since the rooms and floors had to be completely cleared, we ran the line for the phone and answering machine to a windowsill so we could drive over and stand outside, checking our messages every day without going inside.

  The floors downstairs are beechwood. They were all covered with layers of linoleum and plywood underneath those. I’m guessing they covered the hardwood in the 1920s or ’30s to make the house warmer in the winter, or maybe the linoleum just made the floors easier to keep clean. Either way, those layers helped save the wide planks that were underneath. When the polyurethane was dry and we got to come back in, I was in awe of how beautiful the floors were. They are still beautiful.

  The other help I had was Heidi and Hopie, who were teenagers at the time. They pitched in where they could. For the first six months or so, we lived only downstairs, all together in one room, because the upstairs was in such bad shape. No one had lived up there in years and years, and the rooms looked like something out of a scary movie. Water damage everywhere, with ancient wallpaper covered in dead spiders hanging from the ceiling and walls.

  I think the girls knew I was in over my head, but they rolled up their sleeves with me and scraped and prepped and did their best to see the potential in the house too. Honestly, I think if you asked the kids about it now, they’d tell you they thought I was crazy—buying that old house and us moving so far away from the apartment life in Nashville that we knew. They were sure it was a mistake. But they’ll also be the first to tell you that it wasn’t. That they love it so much now. They love what it’s become and all it took to get there. So do I.

  The girls love coming home to the farm. It’s magical for them too. Not just how it looks or the transformation of the house and the barns around it. But how it’s transformed our lives—theirs included. They see it just like I do. Just like Joey did. They were here and know firsthand the story that has unfolded in the rooms and on this land. They know the work I did—that Joey and I and they did—and they also know the things that we didn’t do, that happened. The unexplainable providence that has been at work in our lives since buying this farm almost twenty years ago.

  I’m thankful that our kids see the magic in this place too. Because one day this rural castle will be theirs. And it’s important that they understand that the decisions we make—the ones we really make and follow through on—change everything. And that change will take you places you never dreamed.

  For me, the value of the farmhouse and land we live on has nothing to do with what they’re worth. Or how much the bank would loan us against it. I know that there are good reasons the world looks at a home that way, but what the resale value of our property is holds almost no bearing on what the real value of the home is. I can do the math, and when you take into account what we paid for the place, the nearly twenty years of improvements we’ve made to it (and are still making now), and what the land value is like locally right now, it clearly won’t add up to be a good deal. One plus one in this case equals “I’m an idiot.” But I don’t care. For me, the math is completely different with a different set of rules than what I learned in my grade school math book.

  How do you put a price tag on the memories you make? On the years of laughter you’ve shared and the tears of heartbreak you’ve cried? Or the dreams that have come true because you chose to live there? When I start to add up those things on my brain’s calculator . . . we stole this place. We won the lottery and got it for a song.

  As a matter of fact, just outside the window here by my recliner, as I’m writing this right now, there’s the crunching and beeping sounds of heavy machinery scraping dirt and getting the drive ready for asphalt. We just poured concert pads, and now the whole long stretch of driveway is about to go from the dirt and gravel mix that it’s always been . . . to asphalt. It’s a ridiculous amount of money to have it done, but I’m so excited, I can hardly stand it.

  I can’t see the dollar signs. All I can see is the little girl on a tricycle who is gonna ride back and forth and round and round and say, “Papa, Papa . . . look,” as she pushes on the pedals and makes the big wheel in the front turn. I know, I know . . . that’s an expensive tricycle path, and yes, it is. Crazy expensive. But that’s only because I don’t know all the difference it’s going to make yet. The good part isn’t what I can see in front of me, it’s the part we can’t see. The unknown.

  I can’t really ask our business manager for advice on this one because I know what she’ll say. That it doesn’t make sense . . . and something about depreciating value and return on investment . . . but that is all Greek to me. Let me just do a little bit of the math for you, and you’ll see what I mean.

  Raised two wonderful daughters here. Got married here. Built a beautiful life here . . . priceless. Built a music career from scratch, TV programs from our barn . . . priceless. Had a new baby at home . . . priceless. My wife (and my mother) are buried in the field behind our farmhouse . . . priceless.

  I’m like a walking MasterCard commercial from the 1990s. Seriously. But it’s just how I see life and the value of things, especially our home. Appreciation doesn’t depreciate. It just doesn’t. I could give you a thousand more examples of intangible value that our farm has, but I need only to think of two: to have been given the gift of a place where we could bring one life forth and lay another
one to rest on our property are alone beyond priceless to me.

  If you love where you live . . . if you truly decide to love where you live and dig in and live there . . . truly live there, it doesn’t matter whether you got ripped off or stole it when you bought it; the value of your home will be much more than a professional home estimate could ever be.

  Yes, I know there might come a time when we’ll have to sell this place (God forbid), and then those things will matter, but, honestly, I don’t think they’re gonna matter then either. If I spent a million dollars on our place and in the end it sells for one hundred grand, I would think, Hmmm . . . it was worth a whole lot more than that to me. But I guess not to other folks. And it would be what it will be. And life will go on.

  I try to remember each day that it could burn to the ground, or a big gust of circling wind could knock it off its stone foundation and level it. And all our stuff and history would be scattered all over the mud-soaked ashes. That would suck. Big-time. But it is far, far from the end of the world.

  If I keep in mind that it can happen at any time and remind myself that it’s all just a gift, then I won’t be too shocked if it were to come to pass. And we would pick up whatever is left and move on. And, in time, I believe we’d find another house that we would start investing our precious time and money in and start building another home that probably won’t look good on paper. But it’ll be a hell of a place to come have dinner.

  Location, Location, Location

  It doesn’t matter where you are . . . just as long as you’re actually there.

  Our story could’ve started anywhere . . . maybe in one of the other houses I looked at first, before buying the farmhouse we live in, or in a condo or townhouse in another town or state. Looking back, I don’t think the location we chose made the story what it has become. I think it has more to do with actually deciding that where we were is where we were supposed to be. And believing it.

  Over the years in our travels, Joey and I have seen other places where we could imagine living . . . a ranch in Montana or Jackson Hole, Wyoming . . . a small town in New England . . . or a little beach village on the coast of Italy. And for a few minutes or a few days, our minds would run away with us. We’d let our imaginations take hold and begin to wonder about living a better life than the one we had. And it was always fun to think about those things, but we knew it was just dreaming. We weren’t going to give up what we have for something better. Because we knew the truth of it. It wouldn’t be better. It would be different but not better.

  When you haven’t been to the beach in a long time, your first glimpse and your first stroll in the sand with the waves crashing in is intoxicating. The same way with the mountains. The air just smells different, and the sound of the wind in the trees is magical. Not to mention the picturesque valleys and views from a cabin porch, a mile or so in the sky.

  And it’s not hard to picture a more romantic, sweeter life in one of those places. But there’s always a price to pay . . . a cost that has nothing to do with the selling price of our home and the buying of another. We knew that we would lose something very special to gain something else. The old adage is true, you know . . . you can’t have it all. And in the same way, you can’t be in more than one place at any given time.

  So we have tried to do our best to bloom where we are planted. To be present in the place we are.

  My kids used to tell me that I’m not here. I’d say, “Of course I am . . . I’m right here.” But that’s not what they meant. Yes, I was there physically, but I was also other places. Multitasking in my head. Badly.

  If I’m not careful, I will be somewhere and not be there at exactly the same time. I will miss this moment, thinking about another. My mind will be working overtime, even though my body is standing or sitting still. And I’ll get this glazed-over look that they recognize right away where I see their mouths moving, but I’m not hearing a word they’re saying.

  It’s not that I didn’t care what they were saying because I did. It’s just that I wasn’t great at being present. The lights are on, so to speak . . . but I’m not home. I’m writing a song or editing a film or thinking about something I should have done or said earlier that day. My girls never got mad. They just shut down little by little. They waited me out. They knew sooner or later I would realize that I’m the one who’s missing out on some of the best parts of life and in time would figure it out. And I have. I believe I have.

  It doesn’t come naturally to me. I have to work at it. To focus on today and let yesterday and tomorrow be. But it’s so, so worth it.

  All we have is today. Actually, we don’t even have that. We have right now. This very moment we’re in. And that is enough.

  Three Chords and the Truth

  Country music is life.

  I moved to Nashville in 1995 and became a full-time songwriter not long after. Though for a time, when I was younger, I had visions of being on stage and singing, I soon learned it was in the crafting and combining of lyrics and music where my real gift lay. And so that’s what I did. From ’95 until ’08, when God would magically shine a spotlight on my beautiful bride and I happened to be standing next to her when it happened and somehow ended up in the spotlight too.

  But for all the years before that, it was just me and a guitar and a pen, and it was amazing. Making something out of nothing. Including myself.

  The songs that I wrote would carry me and my two daughters from barely scraping by to a home and a life that anyone would be proud of. From having nothing to having more than enough. From a lifetime mind-set of scarcity to the belief in abundance and seeing the power of generosity.

  And the songs themselves would travel from scribbles on blank sheets of paper in empty rooms to arena-sized stadiums with artists like Blake Shelton and Kenny Chesney performing them while throngs of people sang along with every word.

  I have always loved writing songs. Seeing the blank page start to fill with words and those words start to reveal a character and the character starts to tell a story.

  Many songs end the same way . . . with smeared words and lines near the bottom of the page that are hard to read because my tears had started falling as I came to understand what the song was about and what the character’s story was teaching me. And something inside me knew that if a song moved me, there was a good chance it would move others.

  My first publishing deal was with the legendary Harlan Howard. I had stalked my way into a meeting with him (if you can call drinking beer on a stool next to him a meeting) and left with an opportunity to write for one of the greats. For five years he and his wife, Melanie, mentored me and helped me understand what it was to be a great songwriter. Harlan is well known for saying that country music is “three chords and the truth.” That as a genre, it is simple. And he’s right, in my opinion.

  What makes country music country music, I believe, is the honesty. The truth-telling, even when it hurts. And most of the time in country songs, it hurts like hell. I was drawn to the country genre’s unique form of storytelling at an early age, and I’m still awed by the lyrics of a great country song. When Vern Gosdin sang about not knowing lonely until it’s chiseled in stone . . . or when Merle Haggard sang about his mother’s hungry eyes, they were speaking into my soul. Talking about my life. My family. My heart.

  And so I took to songwriting with all I had. Pouring my guts into it. My heart and my soul.

  I remember one time being in Harlan’s office and playing a song for him. Back then we recorded our songs on cassette tapes, and that’s what I handed Harlan that morning and what he put in his tape deck and pushed play. As he sat and listened, I was parked on the leather couch nearby. Songwriting had been very good to Harlan in the last forty years, and his office showed it. Immaculately built and decorated. It was an honor just to be sitting there beside him, let alone playing songs for him.

  The song was called “That’s Good Enough for Me.” About a farmer who had never been outside the small rural county he
lived in. He’d never seen the ocean or had a midnight rendezvous with a lover, but he’d watched the flowers grow in his garden, and he’d known what it feels like to love and be true to one woman, and that was good enough for him.

  Harlan listened to the whole song with his eyes closed. When it ended, he pushed stop, but he didn’t say, “I like it,” or “I don’t like it.” Instead, he said, “I love this guy.” Like the character in the song was a real person. “I’m not him,” Harlan continued, “but I wish I was.” And Harlan went on to talk about the man in the song and his character and how a part of him wishes he were more like this farmer.

  That conversation changed my songwriting forever. Honestly, I don’t remember if he said whether he liked the song or not. All I remember is that he treated the character in the song and the story as if he was a real man . . . he hurt and felt for him as if he was a real-life human being here on earth with us. And that in turn gave me license to do the same thing.

  Because of Harlan, the characters in my songs aren’t just imaginary people who are one-dimensional to me. Instead, they are just like anyone else I meet on this journey through life that I’m on. They are people who have something to say, something to show you, and something to pass on to us. And I treat them as if they are real. Because, in a sense, they are.

  If I write or hear a song about a man who has come to realize that he’s learned how to love his wife from the people he has dated or loved in his past . . . it is not much different than if I had learned the same thing from my brother or my buddy at Muletown Coffee or my grandfather. Either way, I have observed or listened to someone who has shared something important with me. Something I need to know to help me on my journey. And afterward, in both cases, I have only the memory of the experience to guide me . . . whether that’s from an interaction with a real-life person or with a make-believe character in a song.