Echoes from an Old Hollow Tree

“They’re dying out there, alone.”

She sighed and gestured out the plane’s window to the darkened hills of Vermont. My seatmate on a flight home from Christmas travel, she was a visiting nurse to the elderly and explained that nearly all of her patients had no one. Their children had heard the siren song of the interstate and never came back. Most of her scheduled visits these days resulted in an emergency call after finding her patients unresponsive or with a days-old injury. There was simply no one around to care. I nodded along, thinking of my own town and the aging parents of my former class mates there. You drive by their homes and notice a few more shingles fallen off the sides this year, fewer windows illuminated, the distinct silence of a yard with no grandchildren. Where had my peers gone? We are in our thirties now, we have our own homes and children, but it seems I am in the minority in choosing to return to our little hometown to raise my own. Where did the young people go? For those who wonder such things, the answer is both painfully obvious and deliberately ignored: we sent them away. Not just physically but spiritually, culturally, and economically. We told them to leave, to find something "better," and we equipped them to do just that.

Playing with my little girl in our yard, sledding down the hill in the moonlight, I can hear the dull roar of the interstate on the ridge across the valley. Every now and then she’ll hear a large truck downshift and ask what the sound was. It always causes me me to pause for a moment and wonder if that big old road on the far ridge will take her away one day too. The interstate highway system didn’t create the rural diaspora of young people, but it certainly compounded it. We often praise this vast network of concrete veins as a marvel of modern ingenuity, of freedom, and it is, but it’s also a subtle destroyer of roots. The speed and ease with which we can now flee our hometowns is a historically strange phenomenon; for most of human history, the distance between where you were born and where you died could be measured in miles, sometimes even steps. Now, you can leave behind the fields, the factories, and the people you know, hop in any old car, drive halfway across the country, and never look back. We as a society haven’t reckoned with the consequences of that freedom, haven’t yet fully realized what it truly means. What happens to a town when its best and brightest are no longer bound by place, when their connection to home becomes a nostalgic flicker rather than a lived experience? The answer lies in hollowed-out downtowns, consolidated schools, and faded 'Welcome' signs that greet fewer and fewer each year.

But even if I-89 and all the highways like it didn’t exist, even if leaving was more difficult, many small towns would still be on life support because the very lifeblood of their economies—manufacturing—has been drained away. I asked 35,000 people on X what destroyed their small towns and nearly every answer had some variant of “NAFTA” or the offshoring of American manufacturing. When local factories closed and production moved overseas, the jobs that sustained generations disappeared overnight. What remained were scraps: service work, retail, maybe a nursing home or two. Here in Vermont it’s healthcare. The idea of a dignified, meaningful career out of high school in the town factory became a fantasy. With no economic incentive to stay, young people were primed to leave. Their parents, who had watched their own livelihoods dry up, were all too ready to encourage the escape. “Go to college,” they said. “Make something of yourself.” They didn’t realize that in doing so, they were planting the seeds of their town’s demise.

We can point to the interstate as the means by which people leave, we can decry the loss of American manufacturing as a large reason why the eyes of our youth drift toward the horizon, but what is the ultimate nail in the coffin? What causes them to finally pack their bags and head to the cities? The cultural hemorrhage of our young people, what I call the rural diaspora, began in earnest with the proliferation of liberal arts colleges and the financial aid systems that made them accessible to nearly everyone. From a very young age, Millennials were aggressively told the key to financial success was going to college. The push for college was relentless, especially from baby boomer parents and educators who saw higher education as the sole ticket to success. It didn’t matter if a child showed no interest in academics or if their talents lay elsewhere. Trade schools and local opportunities were dismissed outright as failures of ambition, for something the hicks and rednecks did because they couldn’t cut it in academics. What mattered was getting that degree—any degree—and leaving town to do it. For Millennials, the message was clear: staying meant stagnation, failure, and wasted potential. Never mind that many of those degrees led to crippling debt or careers that could just as easily have been built without them. By the time those young adults graduated, they were so disconnected from their roots that returning home felt like moving backward. What started as an admirable effort to democratize education has unintentionally caused a mass exodus from our small towns. The result? A generation untethered from place, leaving their aging parents to grow old and to die in the towns that are but a shadow of what they once were. Look out onto those cold, dark Vermont hills at night and you will see fewer lights than you did last year. How do you ruin a small town in one easy step? You tell the children to leave.

So, how do you undo the damage? You start by coming home. Not just for holidays or long weekends, but for good. Return to the place that raised you, to the people who poured their lives into giving you a better future. It may not be easy. The jobs might not be there, the schools might be struggling, the streets might feel smaller than you remember. But your presence matters. Your children matter. Your parents matter. To leave them to age and die in obscurity is to contribute to the decline you once mourned. Your hometown doesn’t need a savior; it needs its people. It needs you. Because in the end, the only way to ruin your hometown is to leave it—and the only way to save it is to return.

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Walk through a field this time of year in search of foliage or the last warm days of the year and you will find time to reflect now that the droning din of insects has faded and the biting hosts have mercifully receded. The leaves gently fall, the hayed fields easily yield to your footfalls, and our New England vistas open before you in a riot of gold and crimson. There are fewer things more pleasant than a quiet autumn walk amid the hills of Vermont. Your quietude in the fields and forests may be disrupted however by the late lone cricket, singing a solitary song that will go unanswered by his potential mate who has already departed or died. A walk around the lake too will bring a similar sense of serenity that those good hills provide. The colors at the shore seem to be more vibrant, juxtaposed by the wine-dark water, rippling with the October winds. Look down to where the lake generates from a hundred little creeks and springs coming down the hillsides and you may spot a moose or whitetail deer slaking their thirst in the heat of the day. There is more time to focus on the trees and the water and the wildlife these days; the children have left the water and so too their shrieks of joy as they jump from the bridge. The calls of nervous parents running late have faded or moved into the soccer fields and school yards. You’re joined now by maybe a lone angler or a tourist who doesn’t know the foliage hit its prime zenith last week before the winds and rains came. You may be jarred from your leaf-peeping and deer-spying however by a noisy flock of geese cresting the tree line and blasting overhead. It is hard to feel secure in our decision to live where we live when we see the geese fly south, fleeing the cold; there is always the gnawing question in the back of the mind asking “Do they have better sense than I?” while we know the snows are only weeks away. When you return home and night falls, however, interruptions of a different shade call from the woodline. You may be patrolling your property in the twilight, ensuring the chicken coop and barn are buttoned up and secure when a sharp cry comes from the forest’s edge and shoots straight into your bones — the barking scream of a fox. It may be establishing its territory, it may be scaring off a fight, it may be calling to its kits. It is easy this time of year to hear the hoot of an owl or the cry of a fox and think of all the talons and claws waiting to scoop up a pet or a chicken at the forest’s edge, but stop there in the dusky autumnal twilight, think deeper for a moment, and you may find a comforting thought. Those animals, like you, have decided to remain and endure. They are not the tragic cricket late to the only party that matters. They are not the capricious geese chasing the fair weather. They are grit incarnate ready, like you, to thrive through another long winter. The sun sets and you can enter your warm home wrapped in that fine thought.

There is a hallowed time to be found in the early light of the grey dawn. The mornings are dark now — we have lost much light since the summer solstice when waking before the dawn was two hours more difficult than it is now. With the dark, however, comes the quiet. The children are less eager to jump out of bed, the birds no longer sing at 5:00am, and the family cat seems to be a little more comfortable in the chair by the woodstove these days. The mornings are chill enough now where lighting that stove is welcomed and much good can be wrought by the mother or father who wakes before the family to tend the hearth fire. A fire lit, water boiled, and breakfast made before the first birdsong brings more order and goodness to the world than we may realize or be willing to admit. The good glow from the windows in a woodstove chase away all the October gloom and flood the grey dawn light with an orange that stirs the heart and raises the spirit. The cat certainly seems aware of this, and is content to share the chair by the fire before the little humans with their grasping hands and loud voices wake. While petting your companion by fire there, you feel something though. Something on its neck that should not be there — an engorged late season tick. They took a welcome hiatus in the summer but return now for a final blood feast before their long sleep under the snows. You don’t let this stand — you peel the offending parasite like a burdock seed from a wool sweater and cast it into the flames. A terrible interruption to an otherwise perfect moment. Like the cricket and the geese though, there is a lesson to be found in the briars of the newfound annoyance. It is simple: you were there. You righted a wrong. You were present enough in the hush of the dark morning to find a moment where you could provide a little light. The cat may not even be aware of the good deed done, but you can’t help but note it seems to sleep a little more soundly now there in your lap by the woodstove.

The dizzying drone and procreant urge of summer is over. Autumn has ushered in a quiet that is not the silence of deep winter, but a hush of leaves being blown through a field. This good hush, this welcome interlude, will be halted and stuttered as will many things in life. How we choose to view and react in those moments of interrupted quiet however will define this season and all our seasons yet to come.

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You can feel it now, even if you do not want to admit it. The hint, the suggestion, just the slightest note of autumn. August is close and with it you will be closer to the autumnal equinox than you are the summer solstice. Harvests of the literal and the figurative now begin. The hay in the fields, the berries in the briar, the trees destined for the wood pile by the cellar door.

First we see the second cutting of hay and all the avian activity that follows. The crows descend on the freshly mowed fields to forage insects and seeds, the turkeys wander out from the tree line for the first time since spring no longer wary of the long grass, and the raptors seek the befuddled field mice who suddenly no longer have cover in which to hide. The farmer harvests the hay, and the birds harvest what the hay hid. All throughout the field there is more visible activity now that the long hay is gone. The chickens especially enjoy the larger area to forage and will wander further now, emboldened by the lack of tall grass where fangs and claws lie in wait. It is liberating for them and yet it also leads them to push the boundaries just a little more; instead of foraging at the edge of the lawn and hay field, they now forage at the edge of the hay field and into the forest. Intrepid and bold, always drawn to the next fertile hunting ground in spite of all dangers. We owe chickens an apology: we associate them with cowardice but it may be more appropriate to tie them to images of reckless hunts, of great risk and great reward.

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The fields do not hold the only harvest. The edge places are fruitful too. The ditches at the roadside and untenable land for agriculture hold the briars and their good dark fruit: the blackberry. Mention blackberries to anyone and they will likely begin looking into the distance, into their past, and recounting where the best bushes of their childhood were, of what their mother made with them, of the scratches left by thorns, of memories of days that were slower and held less labor, more joy. Does any other fruit hold such idyllic associations? Apples and apple picking, perhaps, but it strikes me that blackberries hold a certain territory in our hearts that no other fruit touches. We may look back fondly on a u-pick blueberry outing or strawberries grown in our greenhouses, but mention blackberries and suddenly legends of brambles the size of houses and famous cobbler recipes come into play. We think too of our own children and their first blackberry foray. We remember the scraped knees, the sticky hands, the baskets overfilled with joyful abandon. No fruit holds a candle to the blackberry’s contribution to our high summer memories.

The crows caw in the newly-reaped meadow, the chickens wander far afield, and the sound of axe and saw echo from hills. Drive around the old dirt roads here and you will see piles of firewood dumped by woodsheds and cellar doors, men and women at the tree lines of their properties felling trees, youngster swinging their mauls for the first time, children playing with the little splits. Some wood is delivered by the maple sugar makers. Firewood and sugaring go hand-in-hand as trees need to be culled or deadfall cleared by the dutiful woodsmen of the sugaring crews. Some are the products of the household’s labors with families working together to ensure the wood pile grows. Trees are felled, cut into rounds, moved, split, and stacked neatly by bulkheads and cellar doors. There is still time for the wood to dry, to season, before winter but not much. The clock ticks. The light wanes. Take a Sunday drive along the dirt roads where the old country homes stand tired but proud and you will see these wood piles in various stages of development: fallen tree, cut rounds, split pile, or nothing at all. You can begin to gauge who is ahead, who is behind, who is ready for winter. August arrives and we have to look around and ask “have I done enough? Am I prepared?” Yes, there are all the modern conveniences of our oil furnaces and heat pumps but there are those of us with the gnawing voice in the back of our minds that reminds us of the fragility of all things: of the winters past with extended power outages, of frozen pipes, of icy rivers flooding. We think too of our neighbors who may not be as prepared. The oil man only comes on certain days. The wood man stops deliveries in October. When your pile is low and your tank empty on an off day, what then? An uncomfortable scene unfolds unless a neighbor is ready to help. Perhaps they are new to the area or just overcome with all the things that demand our time in a rural place. Whatever the case may be, everyone falls short sometimes and we throw an extra cord on the wood pile with them in mind. If the charity is not needed, the wood can light the hearth the following year. It, like charity, is never wasted.

August arrives and with it all the warm harvests, all the little culminations of days upon days of sun-ripened vines, all the joys.

Find them.

Show your children.

They will not forget.

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This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit oldhollowtree.substack.com/subscribe

Hearth Fathers is a podcast where rural fathers are asked to reflect on their relationship with their home, land, and legacy.

In a fast world, Hearth Fathers is a slow and deliberate podcast; our conversations are not rushed but instead seek to glean wisdom about life from fathers who live in the country. Before you listen, consider pouring a drink, getting comfortable, and slowing down yourself.

Episodes of Hearth Fathers are free and release on Saturday mornings.

This podcast does not have advertisements but you can help me keep the fire burning by becoming a paid subscriber today. Paid subscribers get access to episodes a week early.

Adam Mokelke is a lifelong Alaskan, educator and outdoorsman. He raised his children in rural Alaska, where he grew up, and now operates a charter school in Anchorage Alaska dedicated to getting kids outdoors in nature.

A note: Hearth Fathers will be taking a hiatus during the month of August as my wife and I prepare for our new daughter to be born. Thank you and see you in September.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit oldhollowtree.substack.com/subscribe

Hearth Fathers is a podcast where rural fathers are asked to reflect on their relationship with their home, land, and legacy.

In a fast world, Hearth Fathers is a slow and deliberate podcast; our conversations are not rushed but instead seek to glean wisdom about life from fathers who live in the country. Before you listen, consider pouring a drink, getting comfortable, and slowing down yourself.

Episodes of Hearth Fathers are free and release on Saturday mornings.

This podcast does not have advertisements but you can help me keep the fire burning by becoming a paid subscriber today. Paid subscribers get access to episodes a week early.

Ceri John Phillips is a storyteller and Cyfarwydd for Bro Dinefwr, Wales, focusing on the Mabinogi tradition and lesser-known Welsh folk tales. He has previously worked extensively in the media in Wales and across Britain, from gigging in dingy comedy clubs to starring in and writing on shows for the BBC, ITV and S4C.

Keep the fire burning.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit oldhollowtree.substack.com/subscribe

Hearth Fathers is a podcast where rural fathers are asked to reflect on their relationship with their home, land, and legacy.

In a fast world, Hearth Fathers is a slow and deliberate podcast; our conversations are not rushed but instead seek to glean wisdom about life from fathers who live in the country. Before you listen, consider pouring a drink, getting comfortable, and slowing down yourself.

Episodes of Hearth Fathers are free and release on Saturday mornings.

This podcast does not have advertisements but you can help me keep the fire burning by becoming a paid subscriber today. Paid subscribers get access to episodes a week early.

Michael Thomas is a cider maker, shepherd, home builder, & motivating force behind the new Catholic Land Movement. He lives in upstate New York with his wife and children.

You can read more about the Catholic Land Movement and their upcoming conference at https://catholiclandmovement.info/about

Keep the fire burning.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit oldhollowtree.substack.com/subscribe

Hearth Fathers is a podcast where rural fathers are asked to reflect on their relationship with their home, land, and legacy.

In a fast world, Hearth Fathers is a slow and deliberate podcast; our conversations are not rushed but instead seek to glean wisdom about life from fathers who live in the country. Before you listen, consider pouring a drink, getting comfortable, and slowing down yourself.

Episodes of Hearth Fathers are free and release on Saturday mornings.

This podcast does not have advertisements but you can help me keep the fire burning by becoming a paid subscriber today. Paid subscribers get access to episodes a week earlier than everyone else.

Nate Norman is a bowhunter, speaker, author, coach, and -- most importantly -- a father. We sat down to talk about the three important things to him as a father — the three “M’s” and the villianous Slump Pumpkin Dumpkin he helps other men vanquish.

Keep the fire burning.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit oldhollowtree.substack.com/subscribe

Hearth Fathers is a podcast where rural fathers are asked to reflect on their relationship with their home, land, and legacy.

In a fast world, Hearth Fathers is a slow and deliberate podcast; our conversations are not rushed but instead seek to glean wisdom about life from fathers who live in the country. Before you listen, consider pouring a drink, getting comfortable, and slowing down yourself.

Episodes of Hearth Fathers are free and release on Saturday mornings.

This podcast does not have advertisements but you can help me keep the fire burning by becoming a paid subscriber today.

Bill Davison is an award-winning wildlife photographer, biologist, farmer, and agroforester on a joyful journey to share my love of nature with others.

Keep the fire burning.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit oldhollowtree.substack.com/subscribe

Hearth Fathers is a podcast where rural fathers are asked to reflect on their relationship with their home, land, and legacy.

In a fast world, Hearth Fathers is a slow and deliberate podcast; our conversations are not rushed but instead seek to glean wisdom about life from fathers who live in the country. Before you listen, consider pouring a drink, getting comfortable, and slowing down yourself.

Episodes of Hearth Fathers are free and release on Saturday mornings.

Paid subscribers to this SubStack are granted access a week early!

Help me keep the fire burning by becoming a paid subscriber today.

Adam Rossi is a wildly successful tech founder, CEO, and most importantly, father of three amazing children. Adam cherishs moments spent farming, fishing, and beekeeping on his off-grid Virginia farm and finds solace in hiking, camping, and embracing the great outdoors.

Keep the fire burning.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit oldhollowtree.substack.com/subscribe

Hearth Fathers is a podcast where rural fathers are asked to reflect on their relationship with their home, land, and legacy.

In a fast world, Hearth Fathers is a slow and deliberate podcast; our conversations are not rushed but instead seek to glean wisdom about life from fathers who live in the country. Before you listen, consider pouring a drink, getting comfortable, and slowing down yourself.

Episodes of Hearth Fathers are free and release on Saturday mornings.

Paid subscribers to this SubStack are granted access a week early!

Help me keep the fire burning by becoming a paid subscriber today.

Andrew Bragg is first and foremost a family man. His most impressive titles and achievements are husband to a great wife, and Father to 6 wonderful children. Andrew’s professional pursuits have varied, but his mission and purpose is to encourage others to live out a more traditional lifestyle as he feels that is the best way to come closer to God and to fulfill the measure of one’s potential.

Andrew and his family live in the Northern California countryside on 5 acres in an area that spawned the Gold Rush era of 1849. The land is rich in rolling hills, mature oaks, rivers, streams, and the remnants of a Native people. If Andrew could convey one thing it would be to move away from the bland existence of the city and suburbs, and get back into connection with the human existence through living in better harmony with the land and nature surrounding us. This is better for children and adults alike.

Keep the fire burning.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit oldhollowtree.substack.com/subscribe