I don't believe I've officially introduced you to The MacArthur House. It's my family homestead, a stone's throw up the road from where Ty and I started building our cabin fifteen years ago (past the farm stand, the blueberry fields and the cider orchard).
It's the house my grandparents bought for a few thousand dollars in the late 1940s and fixed up, lovingly and by hand, for the next sixty years. (When they came it was abandoned: shot-out windows, floors eaten by porcupines.)
My grandparents were and are (my grandfather still lives next door) radicals and dreamers: my grandfather is and was a professor of astronomy and physics and a hard-core environmentalist, ecologist and lover of birds; my grandmother was a folksinger, gardener, baker of extraordinary bread, self-trained ethnomusicologist and lover of all things local and all things old.
For the past six years (since my grandmother died and my grandfather moved next door) our family has been trying to figure out what to do with the house and its land. How to honor my grandparents' dedication to cultural and environmental sustainability, how to honor the beauty of the house itself, how to share it with others in order to foster that bridge my grandparents made between art, the environment, sustainability and place.
And so The MacArthur House. We're still not sure just exactly what it will become, but we have opened the doors and windows in order to see what flies in and nests here.
We are so very excited.
(For more info/photos, go here.)