Change happens slowly in the mountains, and sometimes it can go unnoticed unless the story is told.

The old Adams’ Place had covered the mountain for as long as anyone could remember.

It had been a land grant bestowed to great-great grandfather Edward in 1863 by a government torn apart by a war many in these North Carolina Mountains ignored.

Edward hiked every inch of those 160 acres. He camped on every patch of dirt large enough to someday hold a home. He would build a fire in the late afternoon to get ready for the night, then watch the sun set on the day.

Come morning, he’d be up before dawn to stoke the fire and boil his coffee. He’d watch the sun fill the sky before moving on. If the location seemed right on both sides of a day, he’d make a mark on his map. If not, there’d be none.

Finally, after climbing every mountain and wading every stream, he had chosen his spot. A broad plateau facing northeast, over land that would someday be the state’s largest forrest.

It wasn’t long before he had the barn up. He lived near the animals while he and his new neighbors put up the wood frame house. He’d encircled it with a porch, then added a tin roof so it’d be dry for anyone wanting to sit for a spell or maybe sleep on a cot when it got too still and hot indoors.

When he was ready, he took a wife from nearby, and together, they raised a family.

Each child had their own room, with a gabled window to look out over the valley or at the trees in the yard. Over the years, the family planted maples, pecans, and hickories. Some for shade — and some just because someone thought they belonged.

The farm continued with the family through the years. Each generation picking up from the last — until the winter Jane and Martin Adams sold their old family place to that nice young couple.

The Adams’ children were all grown. They lived in big cities where things like pickups and barns didn’t belong. Their daughter in Atlanta, the one with the husband who built apartments, wanted to put a golf course on the land and sell lots for second homes.
Jane didn’t want any part of that idea and Martin didn’t care for it much either, when he thought about what it would mean to the trees he climbed as a boy.

So, it just happened Jane and Martin sold to this young couple, still in their 30s, and only now expecting their first child. The Blue Ridge Mountains’ most ideal spot had changed hands and even Jack, the local real estate man, to this day, still scratches his head over it.

Brooke and Peter remodeled the barn, after some needed work to the house, like bringing the washer and dryer in from the West porch. Mostly though, they didn’t do much anyone could notice.

They stayed close to the farm those first few years. Small communities take time. The longer people have been together the tighter they get. There’s good in that, but it’s hard when you’re new, so best to give it some space, Brooke thought.

She was the more outgoing of the two: shopping in the market and going to church, always with a wave and a smile saying, “Hey – how are you?”

Peter was a bit nerdy and kept to himself. Folks said once you got to know him he was okay, but that wasn’t going to happen as long as he kept his head in front of a computer screen.

Luci, named after Brooks’ mother, Lucinda, had been born in the spring of that first year and was now over four. Luci would hold up five fingers until Brooke folded one over. Plus there was Peter III. He was 18 months.

Children and time made the change easier, but it still was hard to step off the fast pace of their lives and be somewhere that always seemed like it was in the middle of a three-day weekend.

Brooke thought there would be more diversity, or maybe there was and she just didn’t know where to look. Maybe, she thought, diversity wasn’t only about color, but about culture. Maybe the people who welcomed this couple who bought the farm were from one culture and the ones who ignored their, “Hey, how are ya’s” were from another?

That was something she needed to think about – later.